


Surviving Feels a Lot Like Dying

by Sherlockxxxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assault, Blood, Bullying, Cutting, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Abuse - Pills, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Irene Adler is Gay, John Is Openly Bisexual, M/M, Minor Character Death, Physical Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tattoos, Teenlock, but i'm going to write an alternative ending full of angst, but still heed my warnings, happy ending or not all these tags still apply, i changed my mind, there won't be a major death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockxxxx/pseuds/Sherlockxxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes early on in life that even with his superior intellect, he suffers from a chemical imbalance in his brain that results in depression. However, it remains undiagnosed and untreated. Through years and years of bullying, he finds a way to release his agony and pain. </p><p> </p><p>If you like, please kudos, subscribe, bookmark, comment...whatever! :)<br/>Follow me on tumblr @  <b><a href="http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com">longlive-johnlock</a></b><br/>I no longer use <a href="http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com">johnlockwonderland</a> and it will redirect you!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Never Forget Your First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers:  
> -If you are sensitive to depression, suicide, cutting, or pill popping, **please** do not continue.

Sherlock was in his fifth year when he came to the conclusion that he was depressed. Not the kinds of sadness normal children have when they’re denied a toy, or are sent to bed without dessert. No, it was the all-encompassing kind. Where you walk around in a haze, where you’re simply going through the motions and doing what’s expected, and never really feeling anything except for a certain kind of numbness.  
  
Of course, nobody believed him. Why would they? He was only ten. Anybody he told just assumed he read something in a book he wasn’t supposed to be reading. So he finally stopped trying to convince people.  
  
It made no difference if they believed him in the end anyways.  
  
***  
  
When Sherlock was in his eighth year, the bullying and ostracism began. In primary school, he certainly didn’t have any friends, but the other kids were nice enough. Mostly because the teachers made them. So when he was shoved in a locker on the second day of school, he was surprised. The teachers only took notice when he failed to attend his next two classes. When they finally found him, the day was half over and he was in no state to continue. His big brother was called in to pick him up.  
  
This happened almost once a week until they found new ways to torment him, seeing as how Sherlock had figured out ways to pass the time until he was let out. To be honest, he could have easily found a way out on his own, but why bother? He enjoyed memorizing the periodic table and reciting as many numbers in pi as he could – it was better than sitting in a room full of complete idiots who couldn’t grasp the simple concept of acids and bases.  
  
Eventually, the other kids took to stealing his notes, messing up his extracurricular experiments, picking on him in P.E. Hell, one time they tried lighting his hair on fire. When they failed, they settled for his backpack instead. But like the locker, he found ways around it. He didn’t need his notes. When leaving an experiment for the day, he’d switch out the chemicals or change the labels. When those experiments started exploding when having been tampered with, they stopped. There wasn’t much he could do about phys ed, so he took the numerous sporting balls to the head, and shook off the illegal tackles.  
  
Sherlock found ways to fight back. But he was tired.  
  
He was just so tired.  
  
***  
  
By the time tenth year rolled around, everyone avoided him like the plague. Including the teachers. When a boy in his home room called him a freak, Sherlock retaliated and announced quite loudly that both of the boys parents were having affairs. With the same person. When a girl who sat next to him called him a psycho, Sherlock informed her that the reason she hasn’t gotten her period yet is in fact because she’s pregnant – and doesn’t know whom the father is. When his history teacher told him he should try and fit in better, Sherlock handed him a bottle of vodka and asked if this would be his second bottle of the day, or if he would be switching to whiskey soon.  
  
Nobody cared for Sherlock’s deductions. And he didn’t care for anybody.  
  
Sherlock was sitting in his science class, bored out of his mind. Ugh! Solar systems! Who bloody cares about solar systems anyways?  
  
His favourite button up had an unfortunate accident with the Bunsen burner during lunch, and so he was dressed in his spare hooded jumper. It was ratty but it was comfortable and he liked that he could shut the world out with his hood up. The jumper, or as Americans called it, the hoodie had a strange but convenient pocket on the front. Kind of like a kangaroo.  
  
He reached into his pocket and popped his last piece of gum out of the tin packaging. While others were busy taking notes, Sherlock fiddled with his empty package. His thumb brushed over the sharp edge. Not thinking much about it, he pressed his skin against the point. He only pressed so hard that it left a divot. It wasn’t enough pressure to draw blood, and Sherlock was struck with a disappointed feeling in his stomach.  
  
With his hands still in the pouch, he discreetly rolled up his left sleeve a few inches. Steadily, he angled the tin to get the sharpest edge and rested it on his arm. He wasn’t trying to kill himself, it was just an experiment. Sherlock blew a low breath out and dragged the tip lengthwise, about four inches.  
  
It stung a little bit – it wasn’t unbearable, but it burned. And it was a beautiful kind of burn. Blood slowly trickled out of the cut. Honestly, cut was a generous word. It was more of a deep scrape than anything.  
  
Sherlock smiled to himself, adoring the fact that he was in the middle of the most inane class ever to exist, making cuts and scrapes on his arm. When the bell rang, he made his way to the loo so he could admire his handiwork. He pushed his way into a stall and hung his bag up on the door hook, promptly pulling the sleeve of his jumper up.  
  
The skin on the underside of his forearm and wrist were an irritated light red mottled with stains of darker crimson. Sherlock lost his breath looking at the cuts, crosshatched all over his skin. He lightly traced them, cataloguing the way each felt. Some were raised more than others; some were such shallow scrapes that they were nearly closed already. Most were deep enough to leave light scarring.  
  
The bell abruptly rang again, signalling his next class, and he quickly pulled his sleeve down, wincing as the fabric caught on some of the jagged edges, threatening to rip up even more skin.  
  
Sherlock drifted through the remainder of his day, not making any more marks on the canvas that was once an unblemished arm. One thing was for certain, however. He was positive he hadn’t felt so relaxed and so carefree in almost his entire life.  
  
Within just a few weeks of this new routine, Sherlock grew careless. And then he was caught.


	2. Numb is the Only Thing Worth Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was having a treacherous day. Enter John Watson, Captain of the Football team. He ruins everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers:  
> -Cutting & depression  
> -Blood
> 
>  
> 
> *****SEE END OF CHAPTER FOR FAN ART!*****

John Watson ruined _everything._  
  
Sherlock was having a particularly lousy day before that unfortunate moment when the captain of the football team found him with gauze wrapped around his wrist. That incident was just the icing on the cake.  
  
His chemistry privileges were revoked after accidentally-on-purpose manufacturing a chemical that caused people to lose their hair and he was to spend his free periods, including lunch, in detention. To make matters worse, he got sent to the guidance counsellor because his short story on committing the perfect murder was a little _too_ good. And the victim _might_ have been his teacher.  
  
Sherlock being Sherlock, though, did not care one iota about his punishment and that’s how he found himself in a nook behind the school watching the football team practice. He’d already dragged the tip of an army knife down his arm and wrapped it with plaster. Every time he watched the blood flow out of the wound, he was entranced, and it was like all of his problems, all of his stress, all of his _feelings_ were flowing away with it. The euphoria that came after was more than nice – it was absolutely sublime.  
  
After he finished a cigarette, he slid down the brick wall until he hit the ground, and he pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could. His arms were wrapped around his shins until the pressure against his cuts was too much. Plus, it stopped the satisfying leak of blood through fabric and that simply wouldn’t do. Sherlock dropped his left arm to the ground beside him, resting between his foot and the wall.  
  
He didn’t anticipate dozing off, and was exceptionally startled when he awoke to a cleat-clad foot nudging his beat up chucks. What actually startled him the most was the boy attached to the foot. John Watson. Captain and left wing forward of the football team.  
  
“You okay, mate?”  
  
Sherlock glared at the boy above him, annoyed at the intrusion.  
  
“You’re uh… well, you’re bleeding,” he said, pointing to Sherlock’s bandaged arm.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“Should I call someone?”  
  
“I’m not in any immediate danger. And even if I were, nobody would care.”  
  
“What makes you think that?”  
  
“I don’t _think_ it. I _know_ it. The last time I saw the school nurse was for a beating I took. She said I probably deserved it and that if she weren’t contractually obligated to assist me, she would have allowed my injuries to go untreated.”  
  
“Jesus,” John exclaimed. “Was the… was it your parents?”  
  
“For it to have been my parents, they’d have to acknowledge I exist.”  
  
“Who was it, then?”  
  
“Ask your goalkeeper.”

“Wait – you mean Anderson?”  
  
“Does that really surprise you?” Sherlock scoffed.  
  
“Not really, no.”  
  
John shrugged and sat down across from Sherlock, stretching his legs out. The nook wasn’t very large, so John’s feet were just barely touching the wall Sherlock was against. John lightly poked Sherlock with his toe.  
  
“So… uhm… did you… did you do that to yourself?”  
  
Sherlock smirked at him.  
  
“No. No of course not. That would just be silly, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“Can I see?”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock held his arm out towards John and turned his attention to the mobile in his other hand. When John began unwrapping the wound, Sherlock flinched. It was the deepest cut yet. If Sherlock had no knowledge of anatomy, he would have been quite worried he’d hit an important vein, but he knew better.  
  
John hissed when he saw the laceration, surrounded by angry red skin and dried splotches of blood.  
  
“What the bloody hell did you use? A shiv made out of a soda can?”  
  
Sherlock paused his Internet browsing and pulled the knife from his pocket and handed it to John.  
  
“You need stitches, Sherlock.”  
  
At that, Sherlock raised his head to make eye contact with John.  
  
“You know my name?”  
  
“We’ve been in the same class since primary. Of course I know who you are.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“Seriously, though. This needs medical attention, it’s pretty deep.”  
  
“That was the point. I’m not going to the A&E.”  
  
John glared at him but conceded. He unzipped his duffel bag and rifled through it, looking for his first aid kit. After he found it, he opened it up and began pulling out what he needed; antibacterial cream, disinfectant wipes, a sterile needle, threading, and latex gloves. Before putting the small box away, he plucked out a numbing spray as well.  
  
“Fine. If you’re going to be thick, I’ll do it.”  
  
John tugged at Sherlock’s ankles, unfolding them from his chest. Clearing his throat awkwardly, John pushed Sherlock’s legs apart just slightly.  
  
“Put your arm against your thigh. And if you want the sutures to be _any_ good, you won’t move a muscle. Got it?”  
  
Nodding, Sherlock placed his arm against his thigh, shifting a bit to get more comfortable. John sat up and shuffled over on his knees until he was straddling the leg that was acting as a table. He pulled the gloves on with a snap and started cleaning the gash with a wipe. After he was finished with cleaning, he sprayed some of the numbing spray around the cut and waited a few moments. While he waited for the spray to take effect, John expertly mounted the thread into the needle and weighed the pros and cons of which technique to use.  
  
Ultimately, he would have preferred to do a simple stitch but in the end, he opted for the continuous stitch. He didn’t think Sherlock had the patience for a simple stitch. Once John had decided, he began his work.  
  
“Ow.”  
  
“Did you say ‘ow’ when you decided to cut yourself, hmm?”  
  
John was greeted by silence.  
  
“That’s what I thought.”  
  
The stitching continued, neither of the boys speaking to one another. John was concentrating on his technique, and Sherlock was busy admiring it. He was also enjoying seeing his skin be pulled together and manipulated – it was mesmerizing.  
  
“All done,” John announced as he rubbed a thin layer of the antibacterial cream on the cut and covered it with plaster.  
  
“I am mildly impressed. Now… go away.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Sherlock sputtered.  
  
“I _said_ , no.”  
  
John raised an eyebrow in challenge as he pocketed the knife Sherlock had let him look at. Growling, Sherlock grabbed his ratty jumper out of his rucksack, pulled it over his head, and jumped to his feet, walking away from John. Chuckling, John stood up and trailed after him at a safe distance.  
  
Having had enough, Sherlock spun around and crowded John, snarling at him.  
  
“Are you _seriously_ going to follow me home like some kind of stray dog?”  
  
John shrugged. “If that’s what I have to do.”  
  
“But _why?_ Why do you think you have to do _anything at all?_ ”  
  
Squinting his eyes dangerously, John crowded Sherlock right back.  
  
“Why are you so averse to having a friend?” John shot back.  
  
“Fine. Whatever. Don’t expect an ounce of gratitude.”  
  
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sherlock Holmes. Not from you,” John winked.  
  
Sherlock spun on his heel and jogged home. He was simultaneously surprised and not surprised when he found John had jogged behind him. Sherlock shuffled hastily inside and slammed the door on the boys face, uncaring. He stomped up the stairs to his room and looked out his window, only to see John setting up camp in a bush next to the door. Sherlock screamed out in frustration, thankful for an empty house.  
  
John Watson ruined **everything**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I commissioned Fae ([faetalities](http://faetalities.tumblr.com)) to draw this scene because I loved it just so much!   
> Just imagine Sherlock as more punk-rock ;)  
> 


	3. A Promise Made Over Morning Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself.
> 
> He rummaged through his nightstand; smiling to himself when he found the new wristband he had bought to cover the cuts. The fabric was black and was covered in white and grey skulls. It was so unequivocally Sherlock that nobody would bat an eye at the new accessory.
> 
> Well. Except for John fucking Watson.
> 
> **I live at [johnlockwonderland](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I have taken the 'major character death' warning away, please heed my tags and warnings! Just because the ending will be happy does not mean those tags don't apply. So **please** keep that in mind! It is going to get a lot worse before it gets better, alright?

Sherlock spent the rest of his day lying on the floor of his bedroom, staring at the ceiling. Every hour or so, he got up and looked out of his window to check if John was still hiding out, waiting. And every single time he checked, he was begrudgingly surprised to find that John was, in fact, still there. As surprised as Sherlock was, he was also overwhelmingly frustrated.  
  
Night had soon fallen and the only things that illuminated John in any way were the street lamps. Sherlock had debated more than he cared to admit on whether to toss down a blanket, but he really didn’t want to encourage this frankly unwelcome behaviour. He was drawn out of his thoughts when a knock came at his door. He ignored it, although he knew it wouldn’t do much good.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
He chose not to reply. His silence resulted in his door being opened.  
  
“Why is there a young blonde boy in a filthy football uniform in the shrubbery?”  
  
Sherlock simply shrugged and closed his eyes.  
  
“Do I need to have him removed from the premises?”  
  
The threat had Sherlock chuckling so hard he had to sit up.  
  
“Myc, he’s been sitting in the same spot for three hours and twenty nine minutes. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’s the leader of an international drug smuggling ring, although rumour has it, he’s got a reputation in the sex trafficking business. But, you know, can you really trust the word of a woman who deals illegal firearms?”  
  
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, brother mine.”  
  
“If you’re _so_ concerned, go ask him why. You know it’s not a habit of mine to get involved with people,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the thought.  
  
“Perhaps I’ll invite him in for tea.”  
  
“Fine. Just don’t drag me into it, Mycroft.”  
  
Mycroft glared and retreated from the room, slamming the door.  
  
Sherlock promptly stood and twisted the lock on his door and then collapsed like a house of cards on his bed, his arm flopping heavily across his eyes. He flicked the _‘power’_ button on the remote to his stereo system and turned the volume up until classical music drowned all of his thoughts.  
  
His eyelids drooped beneath his arm and he was lulled to sleep by the gorgeous, melodic violin echoing throughout his bedroom.  
  
Sometimes all Sherlock did was sleep. Sometimes it was all he wanted to do, frankly. More often than not, he’d wake up in the morning, grumble as he made his way to school, come home and have a nap, eat a biscuit and practice his own violin, and then go right back to sleep. On average, he was probably wasting twelve to fourteen hours a day. Although, he wasn’t sure he’d consider it a waste of time. Anything that made the world go away was a welcome occurrence.  
  
He woke the next morning at six, with an orchestra still filling the atmosphere, and yesterdays dirty clothing plastered to his body. Sherlock groaned into his pillow and sighed as he mustered enough energy to haul himself off of his bed. Most of that energy spawned from the fact that there would be a freshly brewed pot of coffee waiting on the counter for him.  
  
Sherlock shimmied out of his fitted black trousers and replaced them with a pair of dark blue skinny jeans. Next, he pulled his unfortunately bloodied jumper over his head and tossed it into the corner where his dirty laundry lived. He picked up a baggy t-shirt boasting some old rock band, smelling it to make sure it didn’t smell. As he pulled it on, he caught a glimpse of his stitched wound and was instantly reminded of the blonde haired boy who followed him home.  
  
“Bloody _hell,_ ” he muttered to himself.  
  
He rummaged through his nightstand; smiling to himself when he found the new wristband he had bought to cover the cuts. The fabric was black and was covered in white and grey skulls. It was so unequivocally _Sherlock_ that nobody would bat an eye at the new accessory.  
  
Well. Except for John fucking Watson.  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock snatched the razor blade hidden in a sock at the bottom of a drawer, pocketing it somewhat carefully, and swiped a few pills while he was at it. He had broken his arm and a couple ribs two years ago and had left over painkillers that he had saved. At the time, he didn’t know why he saved them. He had intended to do experiments with them, maybe even sell them if he was bored enough, but they stayed in a bottle in his locked medicine cabinet. They weren’t a high enough dosage to really affect him, but it was just enough to take the edge of life away. It was enough to take the dull ache that resided in every inch of his body.  
  
He quickly downed them dry and stalked out of his room, bounding to the kitchen where he could get a quick high from his morning coffee. Okay, his three morning coffees, but that’s neither here nor there.  
  
Sherlock skidded to an abrupt stop, staring dumbly at the boy sitting at the table.  
  
John _fucking_ Watson.  
  
“Good morning, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock scowled at John and sauntered into the kitchen, reaching the coffee pot hastily. He plucked his favourite mug from the drying rack and poured the liquid up almost to the brim, leaving just enough room to add two sugars. After he stirred the sugar in, he set the cup down and turned to face John, resting his hip against the counter.  
  
They stared at each other, neither daring to speak.  
  
“Sherlock! Can’t you be kind to our guest? Mummy taught you better manners than that,” Mycroft scolded.  
  
Sherlock snorted. “We have different ideas of teaching, evidently. What is he doing in the kitchen, Myc?”  
  
“Why, I invited him. I informed you I was going to. In fact, it was your bright idea, no? However, he hasn’t been _nearly_ as useful as I had hoped.”  
  
John looked down at the table, watching the steam from his tea.  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Mmm. He, quite stupidly, rejected my offer and refused to reveal why he was hiding out in the shrubs. Do refrain from doing things that that result in strays following you home, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he vacated the room.  
  
Sherlock turned back to his coffee, taking a large gulp, and spun around again to observe John.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell him?”  
  
“Because it’s not his business,” John shrugged.  
  
“I think the majority of the worlds population would disagree.”  
  
“Sherlock, listen, if I thought it would be beneficial for him to know, I might have told him. But I don’t particularly think he’s equipped to handle this kind of problem.”  
  
“Problem? I don’t have a problem.”  
  
John chuckled as he pushed back his chair and stood. He shook his head and crowded Sherlock against the countertop, wrapping his fingers firmly around Sherlock's wristband, noting the small twitch on Sherlock's face.  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged and nodded vigorously, as if he were trying to convince himself. John lifted an eyebrow and squeezed his fingers gently, Sherlock not bothering to mask the pain in his face anymore.   
  
"I'm not the type of person to sit idly by and watch people suffer, Sherlock. You're going to learn that very quickly."   
  
"Is that a  _threat_ , John?"   
  
John smirked. "No. It's a promise."  
  
Sherlock all but snarled at John and shoulder-checked him away. He guzzled his lukewarm coffee, and slammed the mug onto the table as he stormed angrily out of the house, leaving John standing dumbfounded in his kitchen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for all the kudos' and subscriptions and hits... I never expected that and it warms my heart <3


	4. Don't You Know That The Kids Aren't Alright?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those moments of peace were glorious to Sherlock, as those moments were far and few between these days. He was busy placing his textbooks and notebooks into his locker – by subject – when someone appeared next to him. His open locker door hid the person’s face but he just assumed it was John.
> 
> It wasn’t.
> 
>  
> 
> **where I live on [tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular triggers/warnings apply:  
> -Brief mention of self-mutilation  
> -Brief mention of prescription pill abuse  
> -Bullying (Anderson is a weenie) & physical assault  
> -One homophobic slur

For two unbearable weeks, John tirelessly followed Sherlock everywhere he went. No matter what Sherlock did, what he said, it didn’t deter John in the slightest.  
  
It was driving Sherlock absolutely _mad._  
  
The thing was, it didn’t prevent Sherlock from directing his self-hatred to his arms or his legs. It was simply annoying as all hell. John could follow him as much as he wanted, but there would always be points in the day where he simply couldn’t keep an eye on Sherlock.  
  
For one thing, they only had one class together. At any given time, Sherlock could excuse himself and hide out in the loo. The stubborn fool had managed to sneak his way into Sherlock’s bedroom a few times to monitor him closer, but on nights like that, prescription painkillers were his saving grace.  
  
Sherlock continued slicing his skin open, revelling in the flowing blood. Any unmarked skin did not stay unmarked for long. Eventually, he got bored. Not by the delightful pain that accompanied the cutting, though. It was just so _plain._ So one day, instead of his usual straight lined cuts, he tried carving things into his flesh. Truth be told, he probably should have started with something a little less intense, as his first ‘picture’ was the molecular structure of caffeine.  
  
But _god_ was it ever satisfying. He enjoyed the idea greatly that he could essentially tattoo whatever he wanted onto his body and it wasn’t long before he had a list of things he wanted scarred permanently.  
  
As per usual, John was waiting at Sherlock’s locker before the class they had together. Because John _insisted_ on walking together, like they were actually _friends_ or something.  
  
“Good afternoon, Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and preceded to unlock his locker, looking for the notebook he needed for biology.  
  
“A pleasure as always,” he replied, full of sarcasm and disdain.  
  
Sherlock slammed the door shut and began walking down the hall, knowing John would be plastered next to his side. What he hadn’t predicted was being unceremoniously shoved from behind for no particular reason other than the fact he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. He flew forward onto the tiled ground, books spilling out from his arms in front of him.  
  
“Watch where you’re walking, freak!”  
  
His jaw clenched angrily and he started picking up his belongings, wishing he were anywhere but here. Most of all, though, beyond all reason, he wished John hadn’t seen the embarrassing altercation.  
  
Wordlessly, John helped Sherlock stuff everything back into his bag. John got to his feet from his crouched position and reached out his hand for Sherlock to use to hoist himself up with.  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” Sherlock snapped and scrambled to his feet.  
  
“You know, it’s okay to accept help from people. Especially people who are trying to be your friend.”  
  
“I don’t have friends. I am blissfully incapable of such a burden.”  
  
John scooped up Sherlock’s bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder.  
  
“We’ll see,” John smiled. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”  
  
Biology went by at a glacial pace and both John and Sherlock were ecstatic when it was over. John loved biology and had aspirations of becoming a doctor, but much like Sherlock, he gets bored easily. Plus, it was Friday afternoon and the last period of the day.  
  
Together, they shuffled out of the classroom and Sherlock headed straight to his locker. Unfortunately, John’s locker was on the other side of the school so oftentimes, he caught up to Sherlock as he walked home.  
  
Those moments of peace were glorious to Sherlock, as those moments were far and few between these days. He was busy placing his textbooks and notebooks into his locker – by subject – when someone appeared next to him. His open locker door hid the person’s face but he just assumed it was John.  
  
It wasn’t.  
  
Sherlock narrowly missed having his fingers crushed and broken as the lanky, scruffy boy slammed Sherlock’s locker shut.  
  
“Long time, no chat, Sherly.”  
  
“I’m not sure you could call what we do _chatting_ , you enormous _pillock_.”  
  
The boy grabbed fistfuls of Sherlock’s leather jacket and harshly shoved him against the wall of lockers, attracting many interested looks from other students. Sherlock was in no way surprised when nobody came to his defence and continued on their merry ways.  
  
“Glad to hear we can skip the pleasantries then,” the boy sneered hatefully, pulling Sherlock forward by the fistful of jacket and slamming him back again, his head thumping harshly against the metal.  
  
Pain that wasn’t self-inflicted shouldn’t have felt so _good_.  
  
It certainly didn’t used to.  
  
“Is that the best you can do, Anderson? Seems like you’ve lost a bit of your fight. Perhaps it’s the fatigue you’re feeling from the case of mononucleosis you’re contracting.”  
  
“Excuse me?"  
  
“Tell me, does Sally know you’re unfaithful?”  
  
Anderson snarled at Sherlock, beads of spit flying from his mouth.  
  
“I am _not_ unfaithful, you fucking poof.”  
  
“Ah,” Sherlock nodded. “Must be Sally who’s passed it along to you, then. Apologies.”  
  
Apparently, the boy decided that he had heard enough out of Sherlock’s mouth. He kept his left hand holding Sherlock firmly against his locker and pulled his right elbow back, his hand in a fist, and threw all of his power into it, connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbone.  
  
“You mouthy son of a _bitch_ ,” Anderson hissed before landing another punch, hitting Sherlock in the same spot, drawing blood this time.  
  
Anderson pushed his right hand against Sherlock again, holding him in place, and crowded him, his face just centimetres away.  
  
“You notice how nobody is stopping me, Sherly?” Anderson whispered hatefully. “It’s because _nobody cares._ Nobody gives a single shit if the class freak is bleeding in the hallway. You could be dying and not _one_ of these people would call for help.”  
  
Anderson tugged Sherlock down by his jacket, raising his knee forcefully into Sherlock’s abdomen, knocking the breath from him. He got two more hard knees in before Sherlock finally toppled over, clutching his stomach, a rebellious tear sneaking out of his left eye, rolling down his cheek and mixing with his blood.  
  
Before Anderson walked away, he took the opportunity to kick Sherlock, aiming for his ribs, booting him the way he would a football.  
  
“Until next time, Holmes!” he grinned, spitting on the ground beside Sherlock before he strut away proudly.  
  
Sherlock allowed himself to choke out one pathetically broken sob, his ribs and abdomen howling in pain. He could feel his cheek begin to swell as the blood stopped flowing so freely. The hits had been so high up on his cheek that the swelling was impeding the vision of his eye.  
  
“I know nobody cares,” he whispered to himself, hating how horrifically maudlin he sounded.  
  
With a great amount of effort, he slowly stood up, leaning against his locker and taking a few deep breaths despite the marvellous discomfort near his lungs. The hurt itself was as wonderful as always, but some of its regular lustre had vanished seeing as how some oafish dimwit was the cause of the pain.  
  
Sherlock decided against lugging his bag full of books home and stashed it in his locker, closing it quietly and limping down the corridor and out of the building.  
  
He had just gotten to the main street when he felt his mobile buzz in his jeans, instinctively knowing it was going to be John, the bane of his entire fucking existence. Sighing, he reached into his pocket, careful not to rub against the tender spots on his torso.  
  
 **Sherlock? Where are you? –JW  
  
** He rolled his eyes and groaned, figuring it was better to text back lest John fucking Watson decided to call.  
  
 _About fourteen minutes away, depending on pedestrian lights. –SH  
  
_ **Why are you so late? –JW  
  
** _I got held up at my locker. –SH  
  
_ **By what? –JW  
  
** _Not important. –SH  
  
_ **Sherlock… what did you do? –JW  
  
** **Why did you stop replying? –JW  
  
** **Sherlock? –JW  
  
** **Oh, I think I see you now. –JW  
  
** Sherlock looked up from his mobile to see John at the end of the street, waiting for him. And currently typing furiously on his phone.  
  
 **Why are you walking so slowly…? –JW  
  
** _If I asked you to turn around until I reach you, would you listen? –SH  
  
_ **…**.. **–JW  
  
** _Please, John? –SH_  
  
 **Alright, Sherlock. –JW**  
  
Sherlock slipped his mobile back into his pocket and tried to hurry over to John, who, true to his word, had faced away from his general direction. He knew John was going to overreact and he wanted to get this over as soon as humanly possible.  
  
When he reached John, he cleared his throat.  
  
“Sherlock? Can I turn around now?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Slowly, John pivoted around, his jaw dropping as he took in Sherlock’s state. John squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling deeply through his nose, willing himself to calm down before he did something stupid.  
  
“What the _fuck_ happened?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter, John,” he sighed, shoving past the blonde.  
  
John’s hand shot out and grabbed Sherlock around the wrist. He let go almost immediately, fearing he might have aggravated an injury – self inflicted or otherwise.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, it bloody does matter!”  
  
“Fine! God! Will you just leave and let me brood in peace if I tell you?”  
  
John shrugged. “Probably not. I might make you biscuits and tea, though. Maybe I’ll even watch Buffy with you.”  
  
Sherlock glared, wondering how John knew his weaknesses.  
  
“Someone came up to me with the intentions of intimidation, I rejected the intimidation and deduced something unpleasant about his relationship. He got angry. That’s about it.”  
  
John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.  
  
“Who was it, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock met John’s stare. “I loathe repetition, John. This is the last time I will ever utter these words to you. Ask your goalkeeper.”  
  
“Anderson? Bloody fuck. Go inside, clean your wound, and hold some ice against your cheek. No longer then twenty minutes at a time, yeah?”  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Are you _really_ questioning me when you’re about to get some freedom? Get your favourite episodes ready, I’ll be back in an hour.”  
  
John jogged across the street and began sprinting down the pavement, leaving Sherlock to do nothing but obey his orders. As if he planned to do anything other than tend to his swollen face. 


	5. It'll Never Look The Same Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with angst and ends with some light fluff. 
> 
> My [tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com) home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Triggers:**  
>  -Description of self-inflicted wounds

The moment Sherlock stepped into his house, he ran to his room, prying up a loose floorboard revealing a hidden compartment containing a beautiful wooden box, his name carved out in handwriting.  
  
John demanded Sherlock hand over all of his self-harming tools, whether it be scissors, razors, knives, anything that was sharp, anything that would break skin. Sherlock did just that. He gathered a box of sharp objects and handed them right over. But John was bright enough to know Sherlock probably wouldn’t offer his favourites. Hell, most of the things Sherlock did collect for him were objects he had never actually used. So because of that, John had taken to weekly sweeps of Sherlock’s bedroom.  
  
John was not a complete idiot – which is saying a lot – but he’s still not clever enough to stay on Sherlock’s level. He had hiding places all over his room that John would likely never find, and if he did, it would be completely accidental.  
  
And probably too late.  
  
He frantically rummaged through the box until he found the most frequently used item – the original tin packaging he used just a month ago in science class. Somehow, it was just the sharpest edge. It always sunk into his flesh, and it made it easier not to go too deep, unlike with a knife. Each knife, each blade, takes a different amount of pressure. It’s never the same, and it’s so easy to pierce the skin just a little too deep, a little too much.  
  
Those are, apparently, the times you need a popular, good looking aspiring doctor to stitch you up.  
  
Sherlock shook the thought of _John_ from his head.  
  
He plucked the instrument from the box and stood up quickly, glancing out the window to ensure John wasn’t on his way yet.  
  
With deft fingers, Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down his thighs. He took another quick look out the window and then sat on the edge of his bed, glaring at the wounds that were starting to heal.  
  
He found an untouched patch of skin on the outer side of his thigh and memorized what it looked like, because it would never look the same again.  
  
Sherlock pressed the sharp tip against his flesh, and as he dragged the edge up, he exhaled deeply in relief. Blood dribbled easily out and he grinned at the welcome sight, the feeling of comfort washing over him like a tidal wave.  
  
It wasn’t surprising that the pain inflicted by Anderson was fairly satisfying, but it lost something in translation because of who was dealing the hurt. It wasn’t as numbing, as quieting as it was when it was self-inflicted, and he _needed_ that sense of control.  
  
He dragged another line up his leg, and then another, the burning and stinging and tingling a wonderful precursor to the crimson that came. It was hypnotic.  
  
At this point, Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever stop loving this.  
  
He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop needing it.  
  
Movement caught his eye from the pavement outside of his window and he sighed.  
  
“Damnit,” he muttered, holding tissue firmly against his skin.  
  
Not wanting to get caught with his jeans down, he pulled them up and fastened them, quickly moving around the room to dispose of the evidence and replace the floorboard.  
  
He pulled a quilt around his shoulders and headed for the door, stopping at his desk to down four or five paracetamol.  
  
“Sherlock? You up there?”  
  
“Yeah, just headed down! Can you start the kettle?” he called.  
  
“Yup! Meet you in the kitchen!”  
  
John was leaning against the marble countertop, facing towards the staircase, as Sherlock made his way into the kitchen.  
  
“Everything alright?” John asked, an eyebrow rising skeptically.  
  
“Yes, John. I have a pounding headache and needed some paracetamol.”  
  
“You didn’t clean up,” he scowled.  
  
“I… uhm. I also needed a moment to calm down.”  
  
John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and Sherlock shrugged. It wasn’t _technically_ a lie. He _did_ need a moment to calm down, and that’s exactly what he did. It isn’t his fault if John assumes it was something else, something dull like breathing and counting to ten.  
  
“Fine. Sugar?” John asked as the kettle announced its readiness.  
  
“Yes, please. So, John, where did you go?”  
  
“I had some football business to attend to.”  
  
“Mmm. Football business pertaining to Anderson? What did you do, John?”  
  
“Nothing. He’s benched for the rest of the season, is all.”  
  
John smiled warmly up at Sherlock before turning around to wet a flannel with pleasantly heated water, wringing the excess liquid out.  
  
“C’mere, let me see your cheek.”  
  
Sherlock stepped forward reluctantly, bending slightly at the knees to compensate for John’s slightly below average height.  
  
“Isn’t he the best goalkeeper you’ve got? And I say that begrudgingly.”  
  
“Sure. Too bad he’s got a broken hand, and perhaps a few crushed toes.”  
  
Shocked, Sherlock let his jaw drop open as John dabbed at his injury with the flannel, wiping away the dried blood.  
  
“You _broke his hand??_ ”  
  
“Not at all. He simply decided it was a good idea to stick his hand in the door as I slammed it shut. Really, it’s his own fault.”  
  
“John.”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock looked down at his feet, feeling oddly shy, and a little bit sick.  
  
“Nothing,” he smiled.  
  
Chuckling, John set the flannel down and beamed up at Sherlock.  
  
“You got those Buffy episodes ready?” he asked, playfully poking the boy in the ribs.  
  
Except, it wasn’t so playful. Because it _hurt_. A lot. It took every ounce of willpower Sherlock had to not gasp, or wrap his arm around his midsection.  
  
“No. I don’t really feel like it. You pick something.”  
  
“Alright. Go make yourself comfortable; I’ll bring the tea and biscuits."  
  
Sherlock nodded and pulled his quilt tighter around his shoulders, making his way to the sofa. Instead of plopping down on the cushions, he decided to nest in front of it on the area rug. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins, trying to ignore the pain shooting from his ribs and blooming in his abdomen. The quilt surrounded him, like a cocoon, he felt safe and protected from the outside world – a world plagued with uncaring people who had nothing but hatred and coldness in their souls.  
  
People were cruel, even the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally. It’s not a lesson anybody should have to learn. It’s not a lesson that should need learning. But everybody learns it some day.  
  
He was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t realized John was trying to hand him his tea. He eventually gave up and set the beverage, along with the biscuits, on the table in the centre of the room.  
  
“Why are you on the floor? I said get comfortable, you git.”  
  
“I _am_ comfortable.”  
  
John scoffed at Sherlock but conceded. He wasn’t about to try and contend with a boy who had been beaten and bullied less than two hours ago.  
  
“I hope you know we’ll be watching Doctor Who.”  
  
“I will accept your choice under the following conditions: firstly, they will be Matt Smith’s doctor, and secondly, it will any episode prior to The Angels Take Manhattan. Agreed?”  
  
“Fair enough,” John chuckled lightly.  
  
After John had finished accessing his home collection via Sherlock’s laptop, he settled onto the couch.  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
Sherlock snorted at the idea and curled up tighter, breathing through the pain.  
  
“I figured as much. That’s okay.”  
  
John pressed the ‘ _enter_ ’ button on the laptop and set it aside, picking up a pillow in exchange, fluffing it and placing it at the armrest of the sofa. John shuffled over a little before lying down on his side, bringing his bent legs up onto the cushions. When he was finally positioned comfortably, John grinned like a fool at the closeness.  
  
Sherlock’s shoulders and head were in front of John’s shoulders. If he were to tip his head back, he’d hit John’s collarbone.  
  
When Sherlock began dozing off, that’s the exact direction his head fell, slightly turned to the right – towards John’s stomach. John smiled at the quiet snuffling sound coming from the sleeping boys lips, and he chuckled when the peaceful noises turned into snoring.  
  
John slipped his arm gently under Sherlock’s head, his bicep acting as a pillow. He grabbed the edge of the quilt and held it tighter around Sherlock, his balled fist resting on Sherlock’s chest. John drifted to sleep, curling his body around Sherlock’s head.


	6. The Worst Thing About Nightmares is Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes from a nightmare.
> 
> Triggers:  
> -Pill popping/painkiller abuse (and will carry on to the next chapter)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter but that's because I'm almost done the next one and it's angsty, then fluffy and slightly steamy and it MIGHT get a bit smutty? We'll see. And I think it'll be longer than the usual length. So I thought I'd separate them because the next one will probably be up tomorrow afternoon :)

Sherlock woke up gasping for breath, his heart racing and thumping painfully against his chest, every muscle in his body tightening, fear permeating his bones. Sweat was covering his forehead, tears pooled behind his closed eyes threatening to escape the moment he opened them, and he couldn’t shake that feeling of extreme panic.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
John sat up and slid off the couch onto his knees, shuffling in front of Sherlock, his hands reaching up to grab Sherlock on either side of his head, thumbs drawing circles on his cheeks.  
  
“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John murmured.  
  
Sherlock whimpered unthinkingly, his walls crumbling down for just a moment, a moment he’d later deem one too many. Hesitantly, knowing that a tear or two would slip out, he opened his eyes and promptly looked away from John’s laser-like concentration, feeling the attention of John’s midnight blue eyes burning a hole through his flesh.  
  
“Alright?” John asked, no judgment in his voice.  
  
Using the back of his hand, Sherlock wiped away the few teardrops that managed to escape, sniffling quietly. He cleared his throat abruptly and nodded, putting his hands on the back of the sofa to heave himself up to his feet.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Sherlock wandered to the kitchen, locating the communal paracetamol. Really, he considered it his just as much as the stash in his room was his. Nobody was ever really home.  
  
He dumped four of the tablets into the palm of his hand and then brought them to his mouth in an almost violent manner, using only his sleep thick saliva to down them. He valiantly ignored the glares he knew John was shooting towards his back.  
  
“Seriously? In front of me?”  
  
“Oh, Christ, John. It’s nothing. I have an extremely fast metabolism; the suggested dosage is never effective.”  
  
“We need to talk about this, Sherlock.”  
  
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he snapped. “I’m going to take a shower.”  
  
John sighed, realizing there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to win this disagreement right now, not when Sherlock was so tense, not when the walls that protected him were built higher than John had ever witnessed. After taking a seat at one of the bar stools that occupied the kitchen, he buried his head in his hands, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that the muscles in his cheeks grew sore.


	7. Overdosing Doesn't Mean I Want to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realized he needed John. And luckily, John was there for him. Things are angsty, fluffy, and a little bit intimate. 
> 
> [my tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)
> 
> also; I know a lot of people are hesitant about reading stories about self-harm and suicide, because sometimes they're overdone, or not done accurately, whatever reason there is. but I did want to point out, parts of this story are taken from my own personal experiences with depression and self-harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers:  
> -Pill popping + slight after-effects of taking too many.   
> -I guess it's kind of an overdose but let me be clear it was not technically a suicide attempt.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, muttering under his breath as he made his way to the loo, stopping in his bedroom to grab his towel and his personal stash of paracetamol first. He listened for footsteps to ensure a tiny, annoying blonde wasn’t following him. Once satisfied by the silence, he carried his things to the loo, hanging his plushy towel on the hook next to the shower curtain.  
  
He turned the taps to a near scalding temperature, letting the steam fill the room, cleansing his lungs, his sinuses, his mind. Sherlock unscrewed the bottle and poured eight more tablets into the palm of his hand, popping four into his mouth and taking a mouthful of water from the sink tap. He stared at the remaining pills, contemplating, before dropping them into his mouth and taking another gulp.  
  
Sherlock stripped out of his clothes, kicking them into a pile in the corner, and pulled the shower curtain open enough for him to step into the tub and under the magnificently hot stream of water. It rushed over him, drenching his curls, droplets cascading down his face, catching in his eyelashes, his body aching from the pleasant heat absorbing into his skin. He hummed contentedly, cherishing the loosening of his muscles, soothing his bruises.  
  
He ran his hands over his head, smoothing down his wet hair, palms coming to a stop at the back of his neck. He rested his forehead against the tiled wall and kneaded his fingertips into his muscles that were sore from sleeping sitting up.  
  
Nightmares were a common occurrence for Sherlock ever since he was a little kid. The first nightmare he had haunted him every single night for years, and nothing has changed much. Now it’s just different things haunting him. One of the things he hated the most about the nightmares was that he rarely remembered them. He just knew he woke up terrified, his heart beating dangerously fast. Sometimes he woke up trying to scream, but nothing came out.   
  
He hated it, and he hated explaining it to people. It’s such a childish thing to admit.  
  
A good twenty minutes had passed before his hair was washed and he was clean. Instead of stepping out, he carefully sunk down to the floor of the tub, his knees pulled to his chest and held in place by his arms across his shins. He breathed deeply and lowered his head to his knees, burying his face.  
  
Sherlock was beginning to feel nauseous, his head was hazy and he felt unfocused. The warmth of the water did nothing for the tingling he felt underneath his skin. He closed his eyes and kept breathing, hoping the nausea would pass quickly.  
  
He was semi-jolted from his trance-like state by an almost frantic knocking at the door, followed by concerned shouting.  
  
“Sherlock?” John called. “Sherlock? Are you alright?”  
  
Sherlock could answer – he wasn’t passed out or incapable of doing so. He just didn’t care. So, he didn’t.  
  
“I’m coming in!”  
  
He heard the doorknob jiggle and John’s frustrated sigh from the other side. Sherlock had been expecting John to use brute force to get into the room, but was pleasantly surprised by the sound of metal on metal as he picked the lock. When he heard the mechanism unlock, he slowly raised his head and rested his chin on one of his knees, waiting.  
  
Sherlock held himself in a tighter ball as John pushed the curtain open.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”  
  
The water stopped abruptly, the taps squeaking wildly as John turned them off, the cold air assaulting Sherlock’s skin causing him to shiver, his teeth chattering.  
  
“Talk to me! What is it? Can you stand?”  
  
Sherlock turned his head slightly, his eyes empty, almost staring right through John. It barely registered that John had climbed in behind him and was trying to maneuver one arm under Sherlock’s, and his other arm around Sherlock’s middle, trying to haul him up. The pressure against his ribs from John’s arm was enough to make him gasp, trying to escape John’s grip.  
  
“Sherlock, you need to tell me what’s going on,” John pleaded.  
  
Sherlock blinked hard and when he opened his eyes, the glaze that blurred his vision had disappeared, and he felt at least somewhat cognizant again.  
  
“Towel,” Sherlock trembled.  
  
John plucked it from the hook and handed it to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock accepted the towel and began straightening his legs, draping the plush fabric over his groin. His torso was covered in mean looking bruises, purple mottled with blue, yellow, and brown. Sherlock leaned backwards until he felt John’s shins at his back, allowing John to see his upper body.  
  
“I will _kill_ him,” John seethed.  
  
“It’s fine, John.”  
  
“Like hell it is! Sit up for a moment.”  
  
Sherlock complied and watched as John stepped over the wall of the tub, and then turned back to face Sherlock. John crouched down a little bit and snaked one arm under one of Sherlock’s armpits, and curled his other arm underneath his knees.  
  
“Put your arms around my neck.”  
  
“I’m not some distressed damsel, John!”  
  
“Put. Your arms. Around. My neck,” the blonde commanded.  
  
Sherlock huffed and only wrapped one arm around John’s neck. It was apparently good enough for John because the next thing Sherlock knew, he was being unceremoniously carried out of the room, towel still sprawled across his lap, drops of water falling from his hair and his back to the floor, leaving a trail.  
  
“For crying out loud, put me _down_.”  
  
His demand was met with a glare and a low growling noise from John’s throat. They neared Sherlock’s bed and John set him down on the blankets with a gentleness that straddled the lines separating friends and lovers, making Sherlock’s insides churn.  
  
Sherlock played with the edge of his towel absentmindedly while he watched John begin rooting around his room, as if he had any business doing so.  
  
“What are you looking for?”  
  
“Your pants. Most people have a drawer dedicated to their pants and socks, but from what I can tell, you don’t,” John accused.  
  
“Seen many pants drawers, then?”  
  
John glared as Sherlock chuckled quietly to himself and continued searching, finally _a-ha’ing_ when he found a stray pair of clean, dark grey boxers.  
  
John sauntered over to the foot of Sherlock’s bed, not hesitating in the slightest as he slipped the pants over Sherlock’s feet, startling him.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?”  
  
“For a man of your intellect, isn’t it obvious?”  
  
“Yes, however what isn’t obvious is _why._ ”  
  
Sherlock lifted his neck up so he was able to look at John, noting the way John’s jaw was clenching, how his nostrils were flaring, and the way his ears were turning pink at the top.  
  
Something that also stood out to Sherlock was the fact that this wasn’t what you could call clinical. It wasn’t a quick dressing. It was slow, almost sensual. John’s thumbs had found their place on the outside of the waistband, and Sherlock could feel John’s palms flat against his legs as his pants were pushed up. Every single hair was standing and every millimetre of epidermis felt alive, John’s warmth leaving a trail.  
  
“Can you, uhm, lift your hips a bit? Or does it hurt too much?”  
  
Sherlock gulped nervously and shook his head, raising his hips so his thighs buttocks were no longer laying flat on the bed. He clutched the towel, closing his eyes and swallowing hard, hoping the fabric stayed in place, praying that John wouldn’t come across the new cuts from earlier. His breath hitched as he felt the elastic of the waistband lightly trail over his backside, snapping gently against his skin as it settled low on his hips. When Sherlock removed the towel, he noticed the waistband had twisted uncomfortably.   
  
Apparently, John had also observed this because without any hint of a warning, John slipped a finger underneath the band, running it between the elastic and Sherlock’s skin to flatten it. It didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice that John’s breathing became laboured as he brushed against the fine black hairs that began just under Sherlock’s navel and travelled down beneath his pants.  
  
John cleared his throat awkwardly and patted Sherlock’s thigh before pulling a spare quilt out from under Sherlock’s feet, draping it over his legs and leaving his battered torso uncovered.  
  
“I’m going to check your ribs, yeah?”  
  
“You know, you’re not actually a doctor yet.”  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock. I know what I’m looking for,” John remarked.  
  
Sherlock scowled at him, annoyed, but gestured towards his ribcage, silently giving John permission to do what he must. It wasn’t the promise of pain when John pressed down, searching for fractures that threatened to shatter his resolve; it was the nausea that was still present in his belly. He bit his tongue, willing the lump in his throat to go away, waiting for John to finish poking around.  
  
“Alright, I think it’s just badly bruised.”  
  
This garnered no response at all from Sherlock, who was now laying with his eyes shut, breathing deeply through his nose, concentrating on making this awful feeling go away, making the tingling covering his entire body _stop.  
  
_ “ _John_ ,” he whimpered pathetically. “I don’t feel good.”  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“It feels like my stomach has moved to where my throat is supposed to be, and I’m tingly. All over.”  
  
Sherlock sniffled as John rested the back of his hand on Sherlock’s forehead, checking for a fever.  
  
“I don’t think you have a fever,” John concluded. “What do you think is causing this? Did you eat something bad?”  
  
The questions were met with Sherlock shaking his head briefly.  
  
“I… John. The paracetamol.”  
  
For some reason he couldn’t identify, his heart dissolved into dust as he watched John’s face fall, fingers immediately coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  
  
“How many.”  
  
“T-Twelve,” he choked out. “The four you saw downstairs. Eight before the shower.”  
  
“Turn onto your side while I get you a glass of water.”  
  
Sherlock reached across his stomach, grabbing a handful of the mattress and tugging himself onto his side, curling up into a fetal position, and then pulling the quilt up to his chin. Tears formed behind his eyes as he listened to the rattling and clanking coming from downstairs. He tried to pull it together before John came back, but he was wholly unsuccessful, tears freely spilling from his eyes.  
  
John held the glass of ice-cold water in front of Sherlock’s face, guiding the straw between his lips. He sipped slowly until half of the cup was empty.  
  
“I called poison control. They’ve suggested we go to the A&E to have your stomach pumped.”  
  
“It’ll pass, I’m fine.”  
  
“I didn’t say we were going. I said what they suggested. I don’t think you’ve taken a fatal dosage. You’re going to eat some toast and then we’re going to have a chat.”  
  
“John…”  
  
“No,” John hissed. “This isn’t up for a discussion. It’s that or we really will go.”  
  
“That’s not what I was going to say.”  
  
“Oh. Okay, what is i—wait. Why aren’t you putting up a fight?”  
  
“Because I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered.  
  
Sherlock kicked off the blanket and flopped down onto his back again, revealing his newly mutilated thigh to John.  
  
“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
Sherlock nodded furiously before he jolted upright.  
  
“I am. John, please,” Sherlock begged. “You need to understand, John, that nobody has ever cared what happens to me. No, don’t interrupt, it’s true. I told everybody I could when I was _ten_ that I had a problem and nobody listened, so you hearing me, you being here, it’s abnormal.”  
  
He scooted over to make room for John.  
  
“I-I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I swear. I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to _feel bad_ anymore. When I cut… it’s like every bad emotion is pouring out of me. When I take pills, it makes me feel emotionally numb. I’m not addicted to the pain, not really. I get high on the release, the feeling of air being _light_ instead of feeling like it’s crushing me all the time.”  
  
Sherlock looked down at his folded hands settled on his lap.  
  
“John,” he started. “I don’t… I want to be better. But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know if I even want to stop. I just don’t want you to leave.”  
  
John snuck one of his hands over top of Sherlock’s.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I promise,” John reassured. “Come here.”  
  
For a moment, Sherlock mourned the loss of John’s hand on his. And then he was surprised to see John holding out an arm, beckoning him to lean in. He stayed in his own space, hesitant about seeming too eager, too needy – to which John simply rolled his eyes, planted his extended arm firmly around Sherlock’s shoulders and yanked Sherlock towards him.  
  
Tentatively, Sherlock looped his own arm around John’s waist, his fingers digging almost viciously into John’s side. Sherlock’s legs were dangling over the edge of the bed, making it easier for John to use his other arm to pull the limbs across his lap. Sherlock burrowed his face into John’s neck, sniffling, memorizing the gorgeous scent of the annoying, caring blonde who’s been following him around for weeks – black tea, fresh laundry, and lavender.  Sherlock threw his other arm around John’s neck, effectively entangling them, all of their limbs connected in one way or another.  
  
“Don’t go, don’t leave me,” Sherlock murmured against John’s skin.  
  
John closed his eyes, his heart ready to explode from the pain he could feel radiating off of Sherlock in waves. He opened his eyes and slid his hand underneath Sherlock’s chin, prompting it up. Gently, he rested their foreheads together.  
  
“I won’t. Even when you don’t want me, I’ll still be here,” he whispered.  
  
Smiling timidly, Sherlock nodded minutely, ready to retreat back to John’s neck. Impulsively, he pressed his lips to John’s cheek, whispering _thank you_ in his ear and nuzzling his jaw.   
  
He couldn’t say where this burst of affection was coming from. Maybe it was because he spent so long rejecting any kind of devotion, or maybe it was because for the first time, John stayed. There was the odd kid who tried to be his friend but it only lasted a day or two. But John stayed. He stayed and he insisted on being there, on _helping_ him. He could never be scar-free for John, he might never be able to give John all of himself, but he wanted to _try_ and that’s not something he’s ever wanted before.  
  
He needed to do better. He needed to _be_ better.   
  
And it absolutely terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anybody ever needs to talk about anything, feel free to message me here or on [tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)


	8. Sometimes You Need Someone New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets one of John's friends and realizes it could be the start of something new.
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really any triggers - brief mentions of cutting implements and missing it. 
> 
> I should mention however... fluff will not happen for a while after this chapter. Sherlock has...a few more setbacks. :o

Immediately after Sherlock and John untangled themselves from one another, John made Sherlock eat two pieces of dry toast, and then preceded to confiscate whatever else he could find. Sherlock had even shown John his secret hiding places; the floorboard, a hollowed out book, the bottom of an old laptop that had its insides removed – even the razors meticulously taped on the underside of his area rug.  
  
He had to show John he was willing to try. He wasn’t exactly confident he’d succeed, but John was and at the moment, that was all Sherlock needed.  
  
For the next three weeks, Sherlock and John were inseparable. This time, however, it was mutual – it wasn’t just John pestering Sherlock and hovering. Sherlock could hardly contain his giddiness when he saw John waiting for him at his locker, or when John insisted Sherlock sit with the team during his football matches, much to the dismay of Anderson.  
  
Sherlock even went to away games with him. They’d sit together at the back of the bus – John _always_ got the window seat – and they’d play card games on Sherlock’s iPad. Sometimes they’d just sit and share headphones, alternating whose turn it was to pick the music. Eventually, they had spent two hours after a particularly miserable match combining their favourite songs and musicians, making one massive playlist.  
  
When Sherlock hit his one-month anniversary of being clean from self-mutilation and self-medicating, he felt content. He missed it. He couldn’t deny it, and he openly told John he missed it. But he was enjoying his bond with another human being so thoroughly that it didn’t matter if he missed it, or craved it.  
  
His complacency was solidified when he opened his locker to find it decorated. Normally, Sherlock would roll his eyes at such an embarrassing display and hope the entire thing would spontaneously combust. Instead, his cheeks became sore from the grin that was plastered to his face, and his heart felt like it had enlarged to twice its size – which was quite concerning to Sherlock who had never really experienced such a phenomenon himself.  
  
Black tissue paper carefully lined the walls of his locker, orange and purple ribbons hung down from the top, perfectly curled, each one a different length. At the ends of the purple ribbons, paper bumblebees were attached – John knew about Sherlock’s slight obsession with apiology. Small skull beads made of ivory hung from the orange ribbons.  
  
“D’ya like it?”  
  
Sherlock whipped around, startled to find John standing behind him, the smile on his face as bright as the sun.  
  
“Please, John. Tell me you don’t _really_ think so little of me that you’d compare me to the massive idiocy of teenagers who find this sort embarrassing public display of celebration _cool_ ,” Sherlock huffed dramatically.  
  
“No, no, of course not,” John countered. “God forbid you enjoy the benefits of friendship.”  
  
“Don’t take offence. I wouldn’t appreciate this from anybody.”  
  
The smile on John’s face never fell; if anything, it only became greater.  
  
“Have fun in Latin,” John grinned, walking away. “Oh, and Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes?” Sherlock asked, studying John.  
  
“Perhaps you should have hidden your smile from your locker mirror if you wanted to keep up the charade of you not caring.”  
  
Sherlock’s jaw dropped, cursing inwardly as John winked gleefully at him and headed towards his next period.  
  
Sherlock, as usual, didn’t pay attention in any of his morning classes. Normally, he’ll spend his time sketching in his notebook, secretly reading things that _actually_ interested him, trying to solve equations and problems that were far too advanced for the curriculum and the absolute idiots that inhabit his school – teachers included.  
  
Today, however, he was distracted by John’s incessant texting. Not that he was complaining.  
  
 **Molly and me are heading to the café down the street for our free period. Meet us there for lunch?? –JW  
  
** _If biscuits and cappuccinos are involved, I could be persuaded. –SH  
  
_ **Our sparkling company isn’t enough? –JW  
  
** _Do you really want me to answer that, John? –SH_  
  
 **Arrogant git. –JW  
  
** **Don’t forget your coat. It’s bloody freezing out here. –JW**  
  
Sherlock shook his head, trying to hold back a chuckle. There was no possible way he could concentrate on anything else besides his mobile. Every attempt he made to distract himself failed miserably. If Sherlock were a cartoon character, his eyes would be twinkling right now, knowing that John cared enough about him to remind him to bring wear his coat in poor weather. When he was younger, not even his mother felt the need to advise him to bundle up while collecting nature samples in the dead of winter.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, the bell struck signalling the end of class. Sherlock flung his bag over his shoulder, nearly knocking a petite redhead to the ground, and bolted out of the room and to his locker. He had deposited his books, gathered his jacket, and fled the building in less than four minutes.  
  
Sherlock practically jogged to the café, only slowing down minutely when he was a few meters away from the door. He found the idea of turning up out of breath utterly unacceptable and would appear just a touch over-eager. Before he passed the large windows of the establishment, he smoothed his hands over his coat and patted his hair down before ruffling it effortlessly.  
  
He strode confidently towards the door and pulled it open, scanning the tables for John. Sherlock stomped up the stairs to the second level after not spotting him.  
  
“Sherlock! Over here!”  
  
In a corner by a window sat John and Molly, both smiling happily at him, and another boy whom he did not know, and at this point, had no interest in knowing.  
  
He began unbuttoning his jacket as he walked to the table.  
  
“Sit! I’ll go get the agreed upon provisions,” John grinned.  
  
Sherlock hung his coat and took a seat, the only chair available being between Molly and the unknown boy. He smiled awkwardly at Molly, only having really ever spent time with her two or three times.  
  
“Sherlock, do you know Victor?” Molly asked politely.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Sherlock, this is Victor Trevor. Victor, this is Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Hey. I’m pretty sure I would have known who you were without an introduction with the way John talks about you.”  
  
Sherlock’s heart fluttered at that, blush creeping up his neck and settling on his cheeks.  
  
“You were right, Molly,” Victor beamed. “He _is_ cute when he blushes.”  
  
His skin felt like it was on fire; he felt certain if he were to look in a mirror right now, he would heavily resemble a tomato.  
  
Daringly, he ran his eyes over Victor, taking in his appearance. Sherlock hated to admit it, but he was good-looking. Even though he was sitting, Sherlock could tell that Victor was tall – possibly even taller than him. He had ice blue eyes, nearly translucent in the right lighting, and his hair was blonde, approximately three shades lighter than John’s. Rectangular glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and stubble graced his jawline. Victor was thin, almost lanky looking, dressed in black jeans and an artfully torn black t-shirt.  
  
“Here’s your… whatever this is. I can’t even call it coffee, Sherlock, there’s so much sugar in it.”  
  
Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice behind him. He glared as Victor grinned at him knowingly.  
  
“Well, I have to get going. See you guys later,” Victor said as he stood.  
  
Victor paused and held his hand out towards Sherlock.  
  
“It was _very_ nice to meet you.”  
  
Sherlock smiled shyly at him, reaching out to grasp the hand in front of him. His brow furrowed as he felt a folded piece of paper against his palm. Victor winked at him and nodded slightly. Sherlock curled his fingers and cupped his palm a bit as he let go of Victor’s hand, holding the paper in place.  
  
“Hope I see you again soon,” Victor murmured quietly.  
  
Sherlock listened to the clicking of Victor’s shoes as he descended the stairs and left the building. He downed almost half of his cappuccino before unfolding the paper, using the table as a barrier from the prying eyes of John and Molly.  
  
 **** _Meet me after school? West entrance. –V_  
  
“Sherlock? You alright?” John asked.  
  
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“I don’t know. You just seem off.”  
  
“I detest meeting new people, John, you know that,” Sherlock hissed.  
  
“Right. Yeah, he wasn’t supposed to be here when you arrived but you got here a lot quicker than I thought you would.”  
  
Over the course of half an hour, Sherlock mostly listened as John and Molly told stories, ranging from football mishaps to dissection disasters in biology. He laughed at the right intervals and asked questions he deemed appropriate, but he couldn’t get Victor off his mind.  
  
Sherlock fancied John. He _knew_ that despite the fact he had never fancied anybody before. Whenever John looked at him and smiled, Sherlock’s insides twisted into a pretzel. He’d never been one to overanalyze romantic feelings – mostly because he had never had them – and he had never been a slave to sexual fantasies even though most of the world’s population of teenagers succumbs to them. That almost made it easier for Sherlock to realize just how special John was.  
  
And it was for that very reason that Sherlock knew he would never act on those feelings – not that he knew how to in the first place. All he’d been to anybody he ever met was an anchor, holding people down. He cared far too much for John, for their friendship and the connection they had, to put him in such a position. It was one thing to be friends with someone like him, to want to help him. It was an entirely different thing to romantically tie yourself to someone who was damaged, broken nearly beyond repair. Besides, he would have been knocked off his rocker if John reciprocated those feelings.  
  
He would meet Victor after school. Sure, he’d have pangs of guilt; he’d almost feel like he was betraying the only person who’d ever put up with his moods.  
  
But Victor was new. Victor didn’t know the darkness that held him hostage. He didn’t know about all things that suffocated Sherlock on a daily basis. It was refreshing in a way that he didn’t quite understand. It was exciting that someone didn’t know about his tormented soul and still saw him. Victor _saw_ him, and he didn’t judge Sherlock for the clothes he wore or his social ineptitude.  
  
Sherlock’s mouth quirked up into a wide smile, pushing the thoughts of John out of his mind the way he did over a month ago.  
  
Maybe he really could be normal.  
  
No.   
  
Maybe he could be _happy._


	9. My Skin is a Canvas and I'm Just the Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to do summaries anymore because I just really suck at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers:  
> -imo, graphic description of cutting
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> also - if you ever need to skip a chapter but want a brief run down about what happened so you can continue the story, message me here or on tumblr! or message me if you just want to talk. :) 
> 
> there's a playlist I've made and have kept adding to! you can find it on spotify [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/johnlockwonderland/playlist/3SgL9ZFufgn6wY1v8L5HUG)

Sherlock should have known that the moment he imagined he could be happy was the moment it would all start to unravel. _Again.  
  
_ For eight days, Sherlock spent his nights laying on his bed texting with Victor. Officially, they were dating, even though they hadn’t gone on an actual date, nor did they ever really see each other. Sherlock would meet Victor briefly at his locker during their lunch period, but they’d then part and go their separate ways.  
  
But Sherlock didn’t mind so much. He enjoyed the art of texting far more than any other form of communication – unless it was John. John was the exception. He’s **_always_** the exception.  
  
Victor was sweet, always flirting with Sherlock and complimenting him, asking how his day was. His stomach still did funny things when he thought of the small kiss Victor planted on his forehead – their only form of physical contact.  
  
That is, until Victor revealed that he was actually in love with a boy named Robbie and all of this was a ploy to make Robbie jealous.  
  
It worked, apparently.  
  
And the heart that Sherlock convinced the world he didn’t have began to disintegrate. He wasn’t sure if he was more upset about Victor, or if it was the idea of someone liking him in such an intimate way. All he knew for sure was that he was hurting, and he was furious. He’d let his guard down, let it crumble to the ground, and now he was surrounded with people who could hurt him.  
  
When he first realized all those years ago that his brain chemistry was improperly balanced, he would have given _anything_ to escape the dull ache of every day life. The sheer emptiness that he saw everywhere he looked. He spent months hoping someone would listen, begging for somebody to just hear him. Now, a part of him greeted the once-unwelcome pain with open arms.  
  
Because he knew how to transform that emotional grief into something beautiful. He knew how to clear his head of the fuzzy feedback that filled it when he felt something he didn’t want to feel.  
  
Sherlock mentally chastised himself for allowing John under his skin. For allowing John to convince him that he could be better. He had let go of all of the things he used to create art on his flesh. It was nearly a blank canvas again – all of the old wounds scarred over. It wasn’t unmarked, but he had a lot of area to work with now that everything had healed.  
  
He growled loudly, gutturally, and stomped into the kitchen, searching for anything – _anything_ – that would break his skin. A knife was a last resort. He found they hurt more, which was fine, but he oddly had a harder time drawing blood. And that was always disappointing.  
  
While he was in the middle of rummaging through the cupboards, his phone pinged multiple times. It made him nervous to check it, fearing that it would be Victor texting with the standard party line about wanting to be friends. Biting his lip, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and looked at the notifications.  
  
Of _course_ it was John.  
  
He sighed and swiped his finger across the screen, punching in the passcode to unlock it, and opening the messages window, tapping on John’s thread.  
  
 ** _I’m so sorry, Sherlock. –JW  
  
_** ** _I didn’t know. I never would have let that happen. –JW  
  
_** ** _I told him to never speak to you again. Is that okay? I hope it is because if I ever have to talk to that bastard again, I might kill him. –JW  
  
_** ** _Are you okay? –JW  
  
_** ** _Sherlock… I’m coming over. –JW  
  
_** Sherlock sighed and typed out a reply.  
  
 _Okay. –SH  
  
_ He tossed his mobile onto the countertop and continued his scouring. A grin formed on his face as he found a box of allergy medicine.  
  
The tablets were housed in tin packaging that emulated the gum packaging from that fateful first cut. He bent it at the perforated line and tore it apart, poking at the corner – it was a perfect right angle, and brilliantly sharp.  
  
He had about seventeen minutes until John arrived. Eleven if he hurried, which he probably would. More than enough time. He didn’t even bother to wander up to his bedroom.  
  
Even though Sherlock had been ‘ _sober_ ’ for over a month, he still wore the wristband that he had used to cover the wound John stitched. It was a little bit like a security blanket, comforting in its own way. He tugged it up towards his elbow, out of the way of the skin on his wrist.  
  
Sherlock firmly held the implement between his thumb and index finger, the corner angled down. He pushed the edge into his flesh, not dragging a line down quite yet.  
  
 _John is going to be so disappointed,_ he thought.  
  
Shaking his head of the frustratingly persistent _John_ centric thoughts, he drew a line about two inches long, feeling his skin ripping. He cursed when only small beads of crimson surfaced. Sherlock set the object down for a moment, resting a finger on each side of the cut and pushing outwards, obscenely pulling the skin apart even further. Blood filled the line and he breathed deeply, relief washing over him. It wasn’t much, and he certainly wasn’t finished, but the effect that small thin stripe had on his psyche was undeniable.  
  
He picked up the tin again and pressed hard against his wrist, scratching another stroke beside the first. Red droplets emerged immediately from the jagged carving, trailing slowly down his arm. With no hesitation whatsoever, he dug another line, small bits of his dermis barely still attached.  
  
From what he knew of self-mutilation, a lot of people when doing multiple cuts at a time, always started out as deep as they could handle, progressively getting less and less so because the pain would get so overwhelming. It was the opposite for Sherlock. He had a habit of starting out tentatively, feeling like maybe he shouldn’t be doing this. But the comfort that surges from that first cut empowers him; it reminds him of how wonderful it feels when all of those negative emotions are flowing out of him. That instant reprieve drives him to use all of his strength when he does the next cut.  
  
He peered down at his wrist after blindly scraping the edge against his skin and gasped, appalled. He’d been unintentionally carving the beginnings of Victor’s name.  
  
Sherlock snarled, disgusted by his subconscious, and hastily started piercing his skin again, just this time it was horizontally, obscuring the first four letters of a name he never wanted to see ever again; especially permanently scarred upon his wrist. His epidermis was a canvas, covered in art both old and new. It was _beautiful._ And he didn’t want anything ugly tainting it. Victor was inconsequential and he knew that.  
  
He clicked the ‘ _home’_ button on his mobile and sighed. John was due any sec –.  
  
On cue, the front door swung open and John was bellowing his name.  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
John paused a moment.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“Kitchen,” Sherlock called back.  
  
Sherlock kept his back towards John, slightly bent at the waist, leaning on the countertop with his elbows, his lacerations dripping consistently into the sink, splattering as they hit the stainless steel.  
  
“Thank Christ you’re okay, you only texted back once! You _are_ alright, aren’t you?”  
  
He hung his head, feeling horrendously ashamed, wishing he had time to cover up his new cuts. Wishing he’d had time to hide what would surely dishearten John. He didn’t move a muscle. His heart quickened when he heard John shuffling over to him, his footsteps heavy with concern. Sherlock felt the warmth of John’s palm against the middle of his back, and he was suddenly overcome with nausea, heaving into the sink. The hand on his back started rubbing soothing circles. He could hear the usual words of comfort offered in situations like this – ‘ _shhh, it’s okay’_ and _‘I’m here, you’ll be alright’_ – nothing that should actually provide any solace but does anyways. The heaving subsided after Sherlock’s stomach was empty and he was expelling only bile and water, tears mixing with the vomit and blood in the sink.  
  
“Let me see, Sherlock,” John whispered.  
  
Sherlock shook his head weakly, refusing.  
  
“Please,” John begged, sliding his arm around Sherlock’s waist, hand settling on the curve, pulling him close, his other hand gently turning Sherlock’s wrist over.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock…”  
  
Slits adorned Sherlock’s wrist – thirteen of them – and the blood smeared against his alabaster skin, the air making the cuts sting and burn and ache, the edges of each wound raised and swollen.  
  
Sherlock watched silently as John turned the taps on, testing the water with his fingers, waiting until it was a little better than lukewarm before bringing Sherlock’s arm forward, under the stream. Sherlock watched the red tinted water swirl into the drain. He could feel John tensing beside him and he struggled to get away, shoving at John feebly, provoking John to hold him tighter.  
  
“Stop. Stop, Sherlock.”  
  
He kept fighting, pushing the blonde’s shoulder and chest. Soon, his actions became less accurate and more of a flailing, landing a solid punch to John’s jaw. Sherlock took his chance and squirmed away, feeling mildly apologetic. When John recovered, he held his hands up as a peaceful gesture and started towards Sherlock slowly.  
  
“Stay away from me, John.”  
  
“Why? What did I do? Why are you angry at me?”  
  
“Just… _stop_. Stop being kind to me.”  
  
John reached out his hand and Sherlock batted it away, watching as John frowned, a look of deep hurt on his face.  
  
“Sherlock, I’m sorry that this happened…”  
  
“John! Shut up. Just _shut up_ ,” he exploded. “Don’t you understand? I need you to _stop_. I _failed_. I tried being normal, I tried being _happy_ and it wasn’t worth it. I really believed I was worthy of – of being loved, of having _friends._ But I’m _not_.”  
  
“Ple—“  
  
“No. Stop talking. I have spent my entire life alone and it’s been lonely and empty and dull but it was better than _this._ I was an idiot, John. I let myself become even more vulnerable. You… you need to go away. I can’t be around you, John. I can’t.”  
  
“Sherlock, not everybody is out to hurt you. Getting hurt is part of life.”  
  
“Maybe,” Sherlock started, glaring at John. “But intentional or not, it still happens. I’m hurting you right now. And it’s only a matter of time before you hurt me back and that… John. I wouldn’t survive that. I can hardly live knowing that I’m disappointing you.”  
  
“You’re n—“  
  
“Don’t. Don’t you dare say I’m not. This is _too much_ , John. It’s too much. I can’t do it anymore, I can’t.”  
  
Sherlock inched towards John, memorizing his face, trying to count every single hair on that beautiful blonde head, taking in the wrinkles of his clothing and the random scuff-marks on his shoes, even the dirt under his fingernails. He stopped moving towards John when their bodies were only a breath apart, until he could almost taste him; his lips were aching with unspoken desire.  
  
“Please, John,” he breathed, lips nearly brushing against John’s forehead as he spoke.  
  
A lump rose painfully in his throat as John raised his chin to meet Sherlock’s eyes, hurt written all over his face.  
  
“I promised you I wouldn’t leave.”  
  
“I’m asking you to break that promise.”  
  
“I’ll give you space for now, Sherlock. But I care about you; you’re not going to get rid of me for good,” John murmured. “Friends don’t walk away that easily.”  
  
Sherlock nearly collapsed to his knees as John sidestepped him and headed for the door, all his resolve leaving him in a wave, fighting the staggering urge to chase after him, beg him to forget this ever happened.  
  
Instead, Sherlock solemnly dragged himself up to his bedroom, nesting in a pile of dirty clothing on the floor, staring at the wall wondering how this was life. How he had gotten to this point. He had no answers and it nearly drove him mad.  
  
The wrist that was painted with cuts was agonizingly sore and for the first time in a several years, it didn’t fill Sherlock’s heart with bliss.  
  
His mobile pinged beside him and he read the notification before the screen went black.  
  
 **Text me if you need me. –JW**  
  
Sherlock left the text unanswered as he curled into a ball.


	10. You Make Life Worth Living but I Don't Want to Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers:  
> -Pill overdose (sleeping pills)  
> -Talk of successful suicide  
> -Suicide 'off-screen' (minor character - if you want to know before you read who it is and the circumstances etc, message me or comment and I'll happily fill you in)
> 
> Sorry this one took so long! I binge-watched The 100 and went hard into fandom after... I've finally come back though. :p Find me on [tumblr](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)!!

The wonderful thing about being desperately loathed by the majority of people was that nobody cared if you didn’t show up somewhere.  
  
Sherlock hadn’t been to school in three and a half weeks and the teachers were happy. They would automatically pass him if it meant he would stay off of school grounds for the rest of the year.  
  
He barely even left his room.  
  
The only time he ever did was if he needed to use the loo.  
  
Or if he wanted tea and biscuits.  
  
He didn’t answer a single message, of which there were hundreds, from John, he didn’t answer when John called, and he sure as hell didn’t bother listening to the voicemails that had filled his inbox to maximum capacity.  
  
Sherlock didn’t keep up with his cutting, much to his surprise – and disappointment. The paracetamol was another story, however. He’d also managed to swipe a massive bottle of sleeping pills he found in his mothers office.  
  
He had plucked two pills from the container and was about to dry swallow them when his mobile vibrated. He closed his fist around the pills and punched the wall in frustration, wondering when John would get the bloody hint. Sherlock unlocked his mobile and read over the most recent messages. There were _at least_ ten texts from this morning alone.  
  
**Why haven’t you been at school? –JW**  
  
**Sherlock, it’s been weeks. I’m worried. –JW**  
  
**Just…. Can you just let me know that you’re okay? –JW**  
  
**Please. –JW**  
  
**I have football practice today, can I come over after? –JW**  
  
**Or we can meet somewhere? –JW**  
  
**Fuck, Sherlock. This isn’t fair. I need to know you’re alive. –JW**  
  
**There’s been nothing in the news but your brother surely would cover it up if you did anything… -JW**  
  
**That’s an idea. Maybe I’ll text Mycroft. –JW**  
  
**Okay, you’re right, I wouldn’t do that, I’m sorry. –JW**  
  
The latest one is what made Sherlock’s stomach drop to his feet though.  
  
**I miss you. –JW**  
  
Sherlock read it over and over, thinking of the different scenarios John could have been in when typing that text. He could have been in class, or maybe he skipped. He likes to skip second block. Maybe the teacher said something that reminded John of him, or someone asked where he’d been. Everybody knew that John and Sherlock had been inseparable for months.  
  
He dumped two more sleeping pills into his hand and dropped them in his mouth, downing them with a generous swig of Mycroft’s best scotch. The still open bottle of pills stared at him, taunting him. He stared back, minutes passing by, the drowsiness already beginning to take effect. Sherlock flicked the bottle, tipping it over so dozens of tablets poured out.  
  
As groggy as he was feeling now, his curiosity was taking over. He picked up the heavy chemistry textbook from his desk and dropped it unceremoniously on the pills, crushing them. When he picked up the book, there was a fine layer of dust sticking to the cover and lining the floor. He used the side of his hand to push as much of what was left of the pills into a small mountain of white. He touched his finger to his tongue and coated his finger with the dust.  
  
First, he sniffed it, unsurprised to find it was scentless – the only thing he could discern was the trace amounts of saliva. After smelling it, Sherlock threw caution out of the window and rubbed a generous amount against his gums. It was bitter, a terribly unpleasant taste. But that certainly didn’t stop him from making sure not a single centimetre of the pink soft tissue was left uncovered. He could almost feel it seeping into his bloodstream, particle by particle. Sherlock let it work into his system before swallowing several more mouthfuls of alcohol, the rich tasting, and expensive amber liquid burning his throat.  
  
His hands were unsteady as he picked up his mobile. His head was foggy and he felt like he was drifting away, to a place where nothing hurt. Where he could just _be._ Shaking, he dragged his fingers across the keyboard on the screen of his mobile, typing out a message to John.  
  
Not one begging for help, not one admitting how much he’s missing John’s friendship, his overall presence. The text is simply meant as an olive branch. Something to let John know that he’s alive, nothing more, no real offering of peace. . After he finally managed to hit the send button, he let his mobile slip out of his hands, fumbling to the ground.  
  
Sherlock tried shuffling on his knees towards his bed. He reached it but he didn’t have the strength to pull himself up. Instead, he just collapsed onto his side, his eyelids drooping shut, and every muscle in his body relaxing.  
  
Distantly, he could hear his mobile vibrating and ringing.  
  
He was too far-gone to answer.  
  
And he was okay with that.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock woke up with a mind-numbingly painful ache in his head, the kind where you almost wish your skull would explode because it would be less painful. His eyes fluttered open, the light in the room blinding him, making his head throb even more. He groaned, and winced. His throat was raw and it felt like he had been vomiting for days. He was almost completely unaware of his surroundings. He knew he was still on the floor in his room, but he couldn’t tell you the day or the time.  
  
When Sherlock tried to reach for his mobile, he discovered how sore his arm was. At first, he thought it must be from passing out on it, but as he squinted at the crook of his elbow he saw that it was covered with a cotton-ball, held down by clear medical tape.  
  
“You’re awake! Thank God.”  
  
His eyes snapped open despite protest from his retinas, searching his room for the source of the voice. In his proper state, he would have found it much faster. He groaned again and tried to sit up only to find he was too weak to even do that. His gaze settled upon the longhaired brunette sitting across from him, reading what looked like some erotic romance novel catered towards the female population. He desperately wanted to roll his eyes but Sherlock knew even a gesture so simple would cause his head to hurt.  
  
“What are you doing here, Molly?” he managed to choke out.  
  
“John sent me.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Molly eyed Sherlock, observing him, before crawling over and sitting beside him. She unlocked her mobile and pulled up a screenshot that John had sent her. Sherlock cringed, seeing the message he had sent to John. He vaguely remembered what he had meant to type, – ‘ _never better’ –_ and this was not even close. It was simply a string of letters and the occasional number. He bit his lip and returned Molly’s mobile.  
  
“What… uhm… why didn’t John come?”  
  
“He did. He’s outside. I don’t understand why he won’t come in, but he’s outside. Has been for a day and a half. Should I go get him?”  
  
She made a move to stand and Sherlock frantically grabbed her hand, violently shaking his head _no,_ his eyes wide and full of fear.  
  
“Please, Molly. N-Not yet.”  
  
She pursed her lips and nodded, kneeling down beside Sherlock. He held out his arm towards her and pointed at what could only be an injection site.  
  
“C-Can I…?”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. Here, let me help,” Molly smiled kindly, lifting the corners of the tape gently. “Uhm, sorry if it’s a little sore. I’ve given needles before, but it took me a couple of tries.”  
  
“What did you give me?”  
  
“Flumazenil. It reverses the effects of sleeping aids. It worked fairly quickly, but you were just so tired…”  
  
“How did you know…?”  
  
Molly shrugged. “I didn’t. John said there’d be supplies waiting.”  
  
“Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed.  
  
“I guess,” she said, uncapping a water bottle and handing it to Sherlock. “You should drink something.”  
  
Sherlock took the offered bottle and sipped cautiously, slightly fearful that it would hurt when he swallowed. It did, a bit, but for the most part, it felt like heaven. The water cooled his throat and he realized quickly how dehydrated he had been. He tipped his head back and guzzled every last drop.  
  
“Sherlock? May I ask you something?”  
  
“I don’t think I’m in a position to stop you, Molly. Ask whatever you want.”  
  
“Were you… uhm. Was this an accident? Or were you trying to…”  
  
“Kill myself?”  
  
She nodded apprehensively.  
  
“I don’t know. What has John told you?”  
  
“He hasn’t told me anything. All I know is that he needed me to help you because he couldn’t do it himself. He didn’t really explain that, either. I saw the scars, though.”  
  
“Ah. Well, I really couldn’t tell you, Molly. I hate not knowing,” he muttered. “I haven’t cut myself in weeks. Pills are so much easier sometimes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I can’t stop hurting myself. I want to say I wasn’t trying to commit suicide. But I think I was.”  
  
Molly slid her hand into Sherlock’s, squeezing gently, encouragingly.  
  
“I’ve never really wanted to _die_ before. I always just wanted the pain to go away. Half of the time, I don’t even know why it hurts. I just know that it does and that I want it to stop.”  
  
“Why aren’t you telling John this, Sherlock? Why did he ask me to help you instead of doing it himself?”  
  
“After everything with Victor, I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t lose John.”  
  
“But you lost him anyways.”  
  
“Yes, But it was me leaving him, not him leaving me,” he whispered.  
  
“He’d never leave you.”  
  
“You don’t know that! I can’t risk it,” he snapped at her, throwing her hand back into her lap.  
  
“Sherlock, has John ever told you about his sister?”  
  
“He has a sister?”  
  
“He _had_ a sister.”   
  
***  
  
Before Molly continued, she let Sherlock have some time alone while she made tea.  
  
Sherlock took a sip as soon as Molly passed him his cup, finding that she had poured extraordinary amounts of honey; and he found he didn’t mind very much. It was comforting, soothing, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.  
  
“I’ve lived next door to the Watson’s my entire life,” Molly started, interrupting Sherlock’s honey-and-tea themed thoughts. “The three of us spent every day together from the time we were kids until the day she died.”  
  
“What was her name?”  
  
“Harry. Harriet, actually, but she _hated_ being called that. John and I never really knew that she had been depressed until her first attempt at suicide. It wasn’t long after that,” Molly grimaced. “Harry was sixteen when she jumped off of a bridge. Probably would have been fine but she smacked her head on a rock before landing in the water. Knocked her out and she drowned. John and I were thirteen when it happened.”  
  
“Is that why he wants to be a doctor?”  
  
“Partly, I imagine. But he’s always had kind of a predisposition for helping people. He likes it, and he thrives at it.”  
  
“So, what am I to him then? He couldn’t save his sister, so he has to save me?”  
  
Molly snorted and rolled her eyes, not suppressing any sarcasm.  
  
“You know, I suggested he tell you about Harry. He said I could at my discretion, but he warned me you’d think that. That you’re some cosmic second chance rubbish and that it’s entirely self-serving.”  
  
“Surely he sleeps better at night, feeling like his ridiculous notion of karma has been righted again,” Sherlock brooded.  
  
“Is that what you think, Sherlock?” Molly glared at him, rising to her feet. “Do you think he’s going out with his mates every night and grabbing a pint? Or that he has a date every other day?”  
  
Sherlock opted not to reply.  
  
“Because he isn’t. You know what he’s doing every single night? Waiting. He’s _waiting_ ,” she hissed, pushing hard against his sternum with her index finger. “He barely sleeps. He doesn’t want to _fix you_ , Sherlock. John doesn’t think you’re broken, he’s never thought you were broken. He just wants you to know without a doubt that _you are not alone._ Do you know he didn’t even want me to text him updates? Because he didn’t want to _invade your space_ , whatever the hell that means.”  
  
“Then why is he outside, Molly? Isn’t that an invasion?”  
  
“You aren’t even supposed to _know_ that!” Molly exploded. “I told you because you needed to know that even when you think he’s not there, he is. His wanting to help you, and be your friend, has nothing to do with Harry. The only thing he’s using from that experience is his bloody sewing skills!”  
  
“But h—“  
  
“Shut up. You are so remarkably intelligent, but you can be so utterly dim. Despite what you think, you don’t deserve to be alone. You aren’t destined to be alone. You could have friends. You could have lovers. You could have anything you want if you’d just let people in.”  
  
Sherlock watched as Molly gathered her belongings, shocked at the brutal honesty that torpedoed from her mouth. He’d even noticed that she didn’t stutter or stumble over her words as she scolded him. Before she left the room, he called quietly to her.  
  
“I… I’m scared.”  
  
“Yeah. I know.”  
  
When he heard the front door of the house click shut, he made his way to his window, peering out, watching to see if John left with Molly. Sherlock was a cross between pleasantly surprised and absolutely mortified when he saw the young girl leave alone.  
  
Sherlock was at a loss. He wanted John in his life – no, he needed John – but he was so scared. Scared of losing the one thing that’s ever made him feel like living. The one person that’s cared, that has genuinely shown an interest in his wellbeing.  
  
He had no idea how other people did _this_. How they could risk _everything_ they had on something that might not last, or something that could destroy them. How they could find something – someone – so worth living for, only to want to die if the bond was somehow broken.  
  
All he wanted was to fade away, to not have to decide what to do next. He was tired of fighting, but he fought the urge to bleed and opened his mobile to the messaging program, typing out a single word to John.  
  
****_Okay. –SH._


	11. Let Me Warm The Bones Beneath Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock eventually decides he should talk to John after Molly's departure. But what happens when Sherlock and John come face-to-face after almost a month of no communication?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Triggers:**  
>  Nothing big to note, really. Some internal monologuing about dying and suicide but no suicidal or self-harm urges/thoughts are acted on, nor is there really any graphic descriptions of anything. 
> 
> Personal tumblr: [longlivexxxx](http://longlivexxxx.tumblr.com)  
> Johnlock tumblr: [johnlockwonderland](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, I've created a specific email for fic/johnlock stuff. If you want to find out about progress or just wanna chat and don't have tumblr, feel free to email me at: **johnlockwonderland@gmail.com**

Sherlock was sitting in the corner of his bedroom, biting his nails, trying to decide how to have a very necessary conversation with John. He had watched from his window as John received his text, the look of relief on his face palpable. The grin that followed shortly after was sweet and hopeful – it nearly flattened Sherlock, wondering how he’d gone three weeks without that in his life. It was scarier, still, thinking what he would do if he ever lost that, if he were to blame for John leaving.  
  
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s _pouring_ , at least let the boy inside!”  
  
Mycroft’s unpleasant voice interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. He looked towards the window and saw that the pane was indeed covered with drops of rain, making trails down the glass.  
  
“So it is,” Sherlock commented, before rising to his feet and pulling a jumper on. He shoved past his annoyingly intrusive brother and bounded down the stairs to the front door.  
  
He opened the door hesitantly, the hinges squeaking.  
  
John was sitting on the steps; knees brought up to his chest, staring intently in front of him, watching the world carry on throughout the rain. He was soaking, a thick jumper plastered to his muscular back.  
  
“John.”  
  
Sherlock stepped outside and carefully closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. He bit his lip anxiously as he watched John leap up, stumbling a bit, not able to hide how stiff his limbs were. He was face to face with the blonde boy who occupied the majority of his thoughts, for the first time in weeks.  
  
“Sherlock,” John returned, an overwhelmingly beautiful smile forming on his face. “Is it okay if I hug you?”  
  
A part of Sherlock – a very dominant part of him – wanted to retreat, to run back inside and lock John out, hide in the comfort of his mind. Battling these urges was probably the hardest thing. All of these natural instincts to just disappear. He wasn’t sure he would ever truly break them, if he were being honest with himself. He swallowed nervously, throat still raw and dry from the dehydration, and nodded timidly, blinking rapidly.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time someone other than John had held him, embraced him as if he were precious.  
  
John’s face brightened as he stepped towards him. Sherlock closed the gap shuffling forward shyly, his arms hanging limp at his sides. When John slipped his arms under Sherlock’s, gently wrapping around his waist, Sherlock shivered. He didn’t know if it was from the fact that it was rainy and cold, or if it was simply because of _John._  
  
He suspected it was the latter.  
  
John tightened his arms around Sherlock, pulling their bodies against each other, burying his face against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock felt John’s fists tangle themselves into his clothing, now nearly as wet as John’s. He hesitantly raised his arms and wrapped them around John’s shoulder, the feeling of being so close, and the feeling of such affection, almost too much for him to bear.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, almost completely inaudible. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Emotions were crashing over him, the emotions he tried so hard to not feel. It was like years of repressed sentiment engulfing him, making it hard to breathe. Sherlock collapsed deeper into John’s arms, almost toppling them both over. He allowed John to hold him up, to support his weight. His limbs were heavy, he felt as if they were dead weight, but truth be told, he had never felt lighter than he did at that very moment.  
  
It wasn’t long before Sherlock was also soaked through and through, but he didn’t care. He began shivering and John hugged him tighter.  
  
Ten minutes passed before John pulled away from Sherlock, their jumpers sticking together, both sets of lips tinted blue, their cheeks red from the cold. John cupped the side of Sherlock’s neck, his thumb drawing a line up and down his jaw, wiping stray drops of rain.  
  
“You should get inside. You’re going to catch a cold, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.  
  
“You don’t get ill from rain, John! You’re a future doctor, you should know this.”  
  
“I’m fully aware,” John smiled. “I understand how immune systems and germs work. It’s an indirect cause! Now, stop being difficult.”  
  
They both knew John didn’t mean that though. The grin on his face said it all. He never wanted Sherlock to change, to stop being difficult and different and sarcastic. Sherlock was beginning to see that maybe, just maybe, John really didn’t want to fix him, didn’t see a broken soul in need of repair. It didn’t feel like a temporary hope, something that would fade when he started questioning the point of life again. It felt like it was something that would be a constant, calming presence surrounding him. A reminder that he was worth it, that he mattered.  
  
Sherlock glared, a small smile creeping onto his lip, a smile he couldn’t seem to hide at the moment. John raised an eyebrow and glared back before reaching past Sherlock and turning the doorknob, poking it open with his fingers.  
  
“Go.”  
  
Sighing, Sherlock turned around, and shouldered open the door fully, shuffling inside as his clothing dripped on the hardwood. He was in the middle of removing his drenched jumper when he noticed John hadn’t followed him inside but instead had began walking away from the house. Sherlock tugged the fabric off and flung it to the floor before calling out to John.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
John stopped and spun around, prompting Sherlock to start jogging towards him. The rain was letting up but the air was still cool on his skin.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I thought… well, you should come in and dry off. You’ve been out in the rain for hours, you have got to be absolutely freezing.”  
  
“Not today, Sherlock,” John replied, resting a hand on Sherlock’s bicep.  
  
“Oh. Bu—“  
  
“Look, Sherlock, we still need to have a serious conversation, and if I follow you inside right now, that’s… not going to happen.”  
  
“Why not? I could make you tea. I won’t even put sugar in it.”  
  
Sherlock furrowed his brow when John chuckled, adding to his confusion.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, you are the most adorably naïve person I’ve ever known. You’re a little bit stunted in the language of flirting. It’s terribly endearing.”  
  
“F-flirting?” Sherlock blinked.  
  
His heart leapt and fluttered and nearly stopped all at once. His skin tingled as John’s hand slid down his arm to his hand, their fingers entwining immediately, perfectly. Sherlock glanced down, unable to comprehend the image of their hands together. It was such a foreign concept to him, and for once that almost made it a better experience.  
  
Sherlock shook himself from his thoughts and looked up, finding John just a few inches away.  
  
“Yes. Flirting,” John breathed out. “Do you even know how God damn heartbreakingly gorgeous you look in the rain, Sherlock?”  
  
He gulped, trying to moisten his throat that had gone desert dry in a split second, and shook his head. Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know he was gorgeous, and her certainly didn’t know John thought so. His breath caught when John leaned in, pressing his cheek against Sherlock’s, his lips nearly touching Sherlock’s ear.  
  
“I’m not following you inside because I want to strip you out of your wet clothes and hold you against me until you’re warm,” John whispered. “And that’s only the beginning of it. I don’t think you’re ready to hear the rest.”  
  
Sherlock gasped quietly, not bothering to hide the shock written on his face. He was definitely trying to hide the hardness creeping up in his pants, though, by tilting his hips away subtly.    
  
He was finding it hard to speak, to form words. Nothing was making sense in his head as he thought about what to say. The words that slipped out were not the words he was hoping for.  
  
“Kiss me,” Sherlock breathed.  
  
“Sherlock…”  
  
“Just once. Just once before you leave.”  
  
“We shouldn’t.”  
  
“John, please,” Sherlock begged. “I need t-to know what it feels like. Either one of us could die tomorrow. You could die on the way home! And we’d never know, John.”  
  
“I can’t even feign nonchalance. I can’t risk that, I can’t risk living and not knowing.”  
  
Sherlock exhaled deeply and pulled his cheek away from John’s, his hooded eyes scanning the depths of John’s. The kiss happened so quick he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten there, how he’d ended up with one of John’s hands on the side of his face and his other clutching Sherlock at the waist.  
  
John’s lips were slightly chapped and rough against his, and he wouldn’t change it for the world. Sherlock lightly placed his hands just above John’s hips, able to feel the top of his trousers.  
  
This was Sherlock’s first real kiss. He’d never had a kiss like this with Victor, and he was never happier that Victor had turned out to be a colossal asshole.  
  
He was enjoying following John’s lead, their lips gently moving against each other. John started running his tongue gently across Sherlock’s plump bottom lip until he understood the implication. Sherlock nervously allowed John to lick into his mouth, their tongues meeting for the first time. It was a strange sensation, and Sherlock knew he’d have to experiment with kissing. Kissing with _John._ He sighed contently into John’s mouth, marveling at the intimacy. He’d never really thought of it before. He knew people exchanged saliva and all sorts of other unsavoury things that are advertised as romantic, but he was literally exchanging oxygen with another human being. Air from John’s lungs was now residing in _him._  
  
John gently bit Sherlock’s bottom lip, eliciting an almost obnoxiously loud moan from Sherlock. He could _feel_ John smirking. Another new sensation he’d be sure to catalog. John tugged at that lip again before breaking the contact, leaving Sherlock mourning the loss.  
  
“Yeah. Definitely couldn’t have lived without knowing,” John teased, a huge smile blooming on his face.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock dazedly blurted out before slapping his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with embarrassment.  
  
“Er – I m-mean… uhm,” he mumbled after lowering his hand awkwardly.  
  
They were still almost pressed against each other, so close Sherlock was positive John was able to hear how loud his heart was beating. As was his habit, he zoned out. It’s what he did when he was scared, or hurt, or sometimes even when he was happy – which was seldom. So far, the only thing that has been able to drag him out of his reverie was physical contact from John. He was unequivocally certain that the only friend he had was completely oblivious to the power he held.  
  
An innocent, sweet kiss on his cheek drew him away from the castle in his mind.  
  
“You’re _very_ welcome,” John murmured. “I’ll text you when I get home, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, still feeling dazed, not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming. 

“Oh, and Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes, John?”  
  
“Please don’t die.”  
  
The change in the undercurrent was almost palpable. Going from romantic and sweet – a moment that so many teenagers can only dream of – to a moment of sobering rawness that would have crushed him if it were not for the high he was still experiencing after his first kiss with John.  
  
And maybe that had been John’s plan all along.  
  
Sherlock watched as John shot him one last small smile and turned away, walking down the pavement to the main street. He noted the way John wrapped his arms around himself, preserving what little warmth his body had at the moment.  
  
He had forced John to leave, knowing he wouldn’t survive if John had ever walked away voluntarily. Losing John would destroy him in a way he had never experienced and he knew that. What he never expected, what he thought to be impossible, was John feeling the same way about the potentiality of losing Sherlock.  
  
Except if he lost Sherlock, it would be because Sherlock had chosen to die. And suddenly, Sherlock was thoroughly aware what he had put John through. It hadn’t been something that crossed his mind because he had never thought someone would be irreversibly damaged if he ended his life, or just simply faded away into obscurity.  
  
Sure, some people might _care._ Mycroft would go to his funeral, but he probably wouldn’t cry. Lestrade, Mycroft’s best friend, would probably attend. He might cry – he’s watched Sherlock grow up, after all. If his parents happened to be in the country, they might make an appearance. They’d definitely send flowers. But they’d continue living. It would doubtlessly barely affect a single person he knew.  
  
No one had ever told Sherlock not to die. No one had ever implied their life would be different if he were gone. But now, there’s John. And now, he is strikingly aware just how much it would alter John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you've read up to this point, you know I'm pretty angsty and dark. For some reason, this chapter wanted to be really fluffy, so this was basically my first attempt at something cute/fluffy/on the verge of smut and I super hope I didn't completely wreck the story, and I hope it didn't suck. :p


	12. Help Me Put Myself Back Together Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John keeps his word about texting Sherlock when he gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Fluffy texting conversation. I thought it'd be a nice interlude. They're still going to have their serious discussion but I thought I'd give them a bit more fluff first :D 
> 
> personal tumblr: [longlivexxxx](http://longlivexxxx.tumblr.com)  
> Johnlock tumblr: [johnlockwonderland](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)
> 
> I'm also available through email: **johnlockwonderland@gmail.com**

**_hey :)   -JW_**  
  
  
_Hello.   –SH_  
  
  
**_well aren’t you a chatty one.   –JW_**  
  
  
_Sorry.   –SH_  
  
  
**_stop apologizing, sherlock. it’s all fine.   –JW_**  
  
  
_No, no it’s not.   –SH_  
  
  
**_what do you mean?   -JW_**  
  
  
~~_[DRAFT] I wish you were here.   –SH_~~  
  
  
~~_[DRAFT] Come back. I already miss you.   -SH_~~  
  
  
_~~[DRAFT] Sodding hell, how do people DO this???   -SH~~_  
  
  
_Nothing. Nevermind. You’re right. :)   -SH_  
  
  
**_ok, now i know something is wrong. sherlock holmes using a smiley-face emoticon? what is it?   -JW_**  
  
  
_Aren’t emoticons supposed to be a good thing?   -SH_  
  
  
**_not when you’re using them. stop deflecting.   –JW_**  
  
  
_I’m fine, John.   –SH_  
  
  
**_i believe you. that’s not what i asked though.   –JW_**  
  
  
_You know, I find your lack of proper capitalization troubling.    –SH_  
  
  
**_SHERLOCK.   –JW_**  
  
  
**_sherlock. you need to communicate, yeah?   -JW_**  
  
  
_I don’t want you to worry. It’s truly nothing.   –SH_  
  
  
**_if it’s ‘nothing’, then you should have no problem telling me.   –JW_**  
  
  
_Fine.   –SH_  
  
  
~~_[DRAFT] alkjdflaksjdflakjsdf ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH_~~  
  
  
~~_[DRAFT] God damn bloody John Watson._~~  
  
  
**_well?   -JW_**  
  
  
_Just give me a bloody minute.   –SH_  
  
  
_Okay, two minutes.   –SH_  
  
  
_John?   -SH_  
  
  
**_i’m still here. just giving you time. or space, or whatever.   –JW_**  
  
  
_That’s the thing.   –SH_  
  
  
**_???   -JW_**  
  
  
_I don’t want that.   –SH_  
  
  
_[1/2] I don’t know how to tell you that I wish you were here even though you just left. I don’t know how to tell you that I miss you even though I saw you twenty minutes ago. I don’t know how to tell you that sometimes I miss you even when you’re sitting beside me. I don’t know how to tell you that sometimes I only want to live so that I can see your face, and th--_  
  
  
_[2/2] that if it ever went away I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t… John. I don’t know how to tell you that I wish I could bottle you up and take you everywhere with me, and that I wish I could spend every waking moment with you because if I’m not with you, I’m in my head and my head is a scary place to be alone.   –SH_  
  
  
_And I don’t know how to say any of that without wanting to disappear immediately after, or just completely die of humiliation.   –SH_  
  
  
_See? It was nothing.   –SH_  
  
  
**_that wasn’t nothing, sherlock. that was EVERYTHING.   –JW_**  
  
  
**_i have some homework i really need to finish but do you wanna go to the cinema when i’m done?   -JW_**  
  
  
_Like… uhm, on a date?   -SH_  
  
  
_Seriously, I wish I were an ostrich right now.   –SH_  
  
  
**_an ostrich?   -JW_**  
  
  
_So I could bury my head in the sand.   –SH_  
  
  
**_oh, lol. well, yes. like a date. i’ll buy you candy?   -JW_**  
  
  
**_can i take the silence as a maybe?   -JW_**  
  
  
_No.   –SH_  
  
  
**_oh   -JW_**  
  
  
_NO! No, I mean, it’s not a maybe. It’s a yes.   –SH_  
  
  
**_oh… :) good. i’ll come by around 7.30   -JW_**  
  
  
_Okay. John?   -SH_  
  
  
**_hmmm?   -JW_**  
  
  
_I’m… really excited for the date.   –SH_  
  
  
_Is that normal?   -SH_  
  
  
**_it’s beyond normal. i’m excited too :)   -JW_**  
  
  
**_see you soon.   -JW_**


	13. Stars Would Fall If You Didn't Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is faced with temptation. He must decide how he wants to deal with it. Does he walk away, or does he give in? He also learns a lot about John's family and past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers:  
> -Alcoholism & liver failure  
> -Abusive parents  
> -Sharp objects & self-harm temptation
> 
> Personal tumblr: [longlivexxxx](http://longlivexxxx.tumblr.com)  
> Johnlock tumblr: [johnlockwonderland](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com)
> 
> Email: johnlockwonderland@gmail.com

The lit up numbers on Sherlock’s alarm clock told him he had nearly four insufferable hours left until his date with John. His heart jumped in his chest at the thought. It would be his first date. He’d never really gone out even with friends before John – mostly because before John, he’d never had any friends. There was the odd person who tolerated him in school but it never amounted to a deep, meaningful connection. His first date was going to be with _John Watson._ The bloody captain of the school football team!  
  
_This can’t be real,_ he thought.  
  
_No, no, you git, this **is** real. You need to remember that, you fool_, he berated himself.  
  
He rolled off of his bed and onto his feet, a blanket wrapped around him. Sherlock had already showered to warm himself up from his rain soaked encounter with John. Other parts of him – one in particular – had wished desperately it were a cold shower, but there was simply no way he could have tolerated the cool drops of water on his skin at that point.  
  
All he had on was his silk black pants, and the soft fabric of his favourite blanket. He hadn’t quite figured out what he wanted to wear yet. John had constantly seen Sherlock at his worst, in so many ways, and that made Sherlock want to look his absolute best tonight. He knew John thought he was worthy, but Sherlock needed to _feel_ worthy.  
  
He flipped through the t-shirts hanging in his closet. These were his favourites, the ones that never hit the floor of his bedroom, the ones he kept clean and indexed. He slid hanger after hanger, searching through dozens of band merchandise. When his fingers touched the softly worn fabric of his favourite vintage Radiohead shirt, he stopped searching.  
  
That was the one.  
  
Sherlock carefully slipped the shirt off of the wooden hanger. He bunched it gently in his hands and brought it to his nose, sniffing it – just in case. Satisfied, he pulled it over his head, his arms getting a little tangled as they maneuvered through the holes. The cotton rubbed against his skin and it was such a comforting feeling; like after you’ve been traveling, sleeping in hotel beds… and then you come home and you sleep in your bed for the first time in however long and you wonder why you ever left, why you ever slept in a bed that wasn’t your own.  
  
He rummaged through his cupboard drawers, looking for a pair of rarely worn skinny jeans. They were what he wore when he really wanted to impress someone. They weren’t anything particularly special – slate grey and carefully ripped in a few places. For some reason, though, Sherlock always felt spectacular when wearing them. Maybe it was the way they hugged his hips, the way they made his backside look. Or maybe it was just because he wore them so seldom that he simply thought they were special.  
  
Either way, he pulled them onto his legs, the denim curving beautifully around his calves, sliding up his thighs like a second skin. Sherlock threw the blanket onto his bed and looked in his full-length mirror, admiring the contrast between his grey skinnies and the black t-shirt.  
  
While he was vainly checking himself out, something in the mirror caught his eye. He stalked over to the closet again, searching for the source of the light reflection. It hit him like a freight train and his lungs nearly deflated, refusing to fill with air again. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to take deep breaths through his nose, his mind filling with thoughts of John.  
  
Sighing, he carefully pinched the blade with his thumb and index finger. He had to be cautious, knowing if he accidentally nicked himself and there was blood, it would open a floodgate he wasn’t quite ready to fight yet. In some ways, he felt like some kind of modern-day punk vampire. The scent, the sight of his blood would just make him crave more. He continued his deep breathing – which he hated, by the way – and wrapped the blade in a pair of thick, clean socks and held it together with an old elastic. Sherlock set it beside him as he slipped his feet into his favourite pair of Chucks.  
  
They were a deep shade of grey, nearly black, with studs covering the heel end of the shoes. Sherlock laced them up messily – he hated when shoelaces, especially Chucks, were laced and tied to perfection. How _boring._ He stood up, grabbing the wrapped blade, and barreled towards the door, stopping in front of the mirror on his way out. With his free hand, he ruffled his hair. It had been styled and curled to Sherlock’s idea of ‘perfect’. Meaning, it looked artfully disheveled. A brief grin formed on his lips and then he fled his room, hurrying down the stairs and out of the house.  
  
***  
  
Through their friendship, Sherlock had never actually been to John’s house. He knew where he lived, but they always had ended up at Sherlock’s house hanging out, or sometimes they just ended up sitting on the grass in a park near the school.  
  
Sherlock felt a little unsure showing up four hours before their date. He was a little sad he wouldn’t get the first-date feeling of someone picking him up at his house but he needed to see John. He needed to right now. That was the thing about going on a date with the one person who anchored you. If you needed them to ground you, the time of the date just didn’t matter in the end. He knew John would probably understand – John was the most understanding person he’d ever probably meet – but that feeling of _‘what if he doesn’t understand’_ was still eating him alive.  
  
He stood outside of John’s door for ten minutes, staring at the wood, counting all the spots where paint was peeling. When the door opened, he jumped back, startled.  
  
“Sherlock? What are you doing here?”  
  
He searched for the right words to say, to explain. But he couldn’t. He stuttered and stumbled over his tongue.  
  
“Molly texted me and said you’ve been standing here for a while, not moving. She said it was kind of creepy.”  
  
_Damnit! I forgot Molly lived next door. Bloody fucking hell,_ he thought.  
  
“Uhm…..”  
  
“Oookay, well, come in,” John invited, his brow scrunching in concern.  
  
Sherlock muttered to himself and shuffled in. This wasn’t how he wanted this to go. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do this, be normal and _date_. So far, he’d shown up hours early, became a mute, and scared John’s neighbours.  
  
_What a great start,_ he growled at himself internally.  
  
When he was done scolding himself, he glanced around, taking in the atmosphere of John’s house.  
  
It was toxic.  
  
Sherlock peered subtly at the drunken man passed out on the sofa; drool dripping out of his lips and down his chin. It was hard to tell but the man was definitely an older version of John. A significantly less handsome, more worn version. He was greying, his nose was bulbous and red, and it looked like he hadn’t bathed in a month. The man’s skin had a faint yellow tint to it. Liver failure. The nose had given it away, but the slight jaundice confirmed it. He was definitely an alcoholic. The bruises on the man’s knuckles suggested he was a mean drunk too.  
  
He trailed after John, self-consciously, mentally kicking himself. No wonder they never came to John’s house, and here he was selfishly intruding on something John obviously wanted to hide.  
  
Sherlock quietly followed John up the stairs. John had no problems making noise, going about his daily business as if his father didn’t exist, but Sherlock was not so comfortable doing that. He stepped lightly, trying to avoid any creaks.  
  
They reached the end of the hallway, not a door in sight. Sherlock looked around, confused. He watched John intently, watched him stand on his tiptoes so he could reach the handle on the ceiling above them. John pulled the handle, opening a hatch, a short ladder coming down. John gestured at the stairs.  
  
“After you.”  
  
All Sherlock could do was nod in response before crawling quickly up the rickety stairs. He kneeled by the hatch waiting for John, still holding onto the reason he’d come over in the first place. He wondered idly if John noticed already, had noticed that Sherlock was holding what at face value was a sock.  
  
When John made it up, he bent over the opening, reaching blindly for the rope that would pull the ladder back up and close the hatch. After he got it closed, Sherlock watched as John locked it. He didn’t think most lofts locked but it looked like John had rigged it so that it could be. The blood in Sherlock’s veins turned hot, rage coursing through him, trying not to imagine what must have happened to make John install a lock.  
  
Even though there was a bed and a small, cushy loveseat, they had both taken up residence on the floor. Sherlock sat in his regular position; knees pulled up to his chest, arms hugging his shins tightly against him. John sat cross-legged across from him.  
  
“I thought we agreed I’d come by when I was done my homework?”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright,” John shrugged. “I’m just surprised is all.”  
  
Sherlock unwrapped one of his arms and held out his hand, palm facing up, cradling the wool-covered blade. John took it.  
  
“Be careful.”  
  
John understood the wool sock wasn’t the point, taking the elastic off and carefully unfolding it. Sherlock could almost see John’s heart drop in his chest. Maybe out of fear, probably out of disappointment or shame.  
  
“What is this?”  
  
“Razor-blade.”  
  
“No, I’m aware of what it is, Sherlock, _God._ I mean, why am I holding a razor-blade that was covered in a sock?”  
  
John’s voice was hard. Sherlock could tell John was nervous, but the sharpness he could hear made him want to panic and run away. He fought the urge, taking a moment to breathe.  
  
“I need you to get rid of it.”  
  
“Did you…?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“You believe me?” Sherlock’s eyes widened.  
  
“Should I not?”  
  
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t believe me.”  
  
“Tell me what happened.”  
  
Sherlock rested his chin on top of one of his knees and nodded.  
  
“I was getting ready for our, uhm, date,” he whispered, cheeks turning pink at the word _date_. “I was looking in the mirror and there was sun reflecting off of it, I guess. So it was really bright and I went to see what it was. I forgot I had it in my closet. I know I’m early, John, I’m sorry. It’s just, it was there and I didn’t do anything, but I was scared. I was so scared and I wasn’t thinking properly so I wrapped it up and ran over.”  
  
Sherlock sniffled, hoping John wouldn’t hear.  
  
“I’ve already ruined our first date,” Sherlock mumbled, sounding broken.  
  
“You didn’t ruin anything, Sherlock,” John replied. “I am so, _so_ proud of you.”  
  
Sherlock looked up at that, his eyes meeting John’s.  
  
“You’re… proud of me?”  
  
“Of course I am!”  
  
Sherlock buried his face in his knees, prompting John to sidle up next to him. He felt John’s arm across the middle of his back, John’s hand coming to a rest at the curve of his waist. He tilted his head a little to the side so he could look at John.  
  
“No one’s ever been proud of me,” Sherlock spoke softly, his eyes shining with tears.  
  
“Well, I am. I’m also happy you’re here.”  
  
“Are you, though?”  
  
“Yes! Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“Because.”  
  
“Because…? Because of my dad?”  
  
Sherlock nodded shyly.  
  
“Frank's a useless tit,” John shrugged.  
  
“And you don’t care?”  
  
“Not really. You get to a point where caring about someone like that is worse than not caring. He’s going to drink himself to death and not a single thing can stop him.”  
  
Sherlock eyed John, surprised. John had a natural instinct to protect people, to care for them, to help them. He’d never seen John, never known John, to let someone suffer. A part of Sherlock didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. He understood completely – he’d spent the better part of his life learning not to care about other people, not even himself. But John was different. There shouldn’t be anything cold or dark about him. John cared about people, and it was really heartbreaking to see him not care about his father.  
  
“You could stop him.”  
  
“No, Sherlock. I couldn’t.”  
  
“But you can help anyone. If you can help me, you can help him!”  
  
“Sherlock, stop. Look. You have it in your head that you’re this lost cause but you’re not. You think the world would be better without you, but it wouldn’t be. You’re a genius, and you’re honest, sometimes a little harsh, but you’re still kind. You’re not a bad person.”  
  
“And your father is?”  
  
“I’d say to ask my sister, but well, you know what happened.”  
  
“Molly didn’t mention him though. She said your sister was like me, depressed.”  
  
“She was,” John confirmed. “Molly, however, doesn’t know as much as she likes to think she does about my family. Harry and I never talked about it to Molly. She left me a note, you know. Molly doesn’t know about it.”  
  
Sherlock uncurled himself, and leaned back until he was lying down. John did the same but was stretched out on his side, facing Sherlock. They were silent for a few minutes until Sherlock flipped onto his side as well.  
  
“Tell me more,” Sherlock whispered, inching closer.  
  
“Not much more to tell,” John shrugged. “He’s a mean drunk. When he found out Harry was gay, he drank more.”  
  
“He, uhm, had bruises on his knuckle.”  
  
“Pretty much constantly.”  
  
“Was it a pub brawl?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Before Sherlock could ask any more questions, John lifted the hem of his jumper, pulling it up over ribs. There were patches of light bruising covering his left side. John’s torso was all muscle. Sherlock was impressed by how hard John’s abs must be, to see that he barely has any bruising but his fathers knuckles boasted dark contusions and a few scrapes.  
  
“Does it hurt?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good,” Sherlock smiled, as John covered his skin again. “John?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Your sister. What she did. It… it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“I know. Most days, I know that,” John nodded.  
  
“If you ever forget, tell me. Let me remind you. Please?”  
  
Sherlock hesitantly moved forward, curling up against John. He felt one of John’s arms slip around his waist. It wasn’t meant to be a cuddle, it was meant to be more of a comforting hug. It’s rather challenging, however, to hug someone while you’re both lying on the floor. Sherlock absentmindedly played with the collar of John’s jumper, accidentally brushing against his neck from time to time.  
  
“I promise, Sherlock.”  
  
He smiled and hooked his right leg with John’s left.  
  
“Hey, Sherlock?” John paused briefly. “You look especially gorgeous today.”  
  
An unexpected wave of relief washed over Sherlock. He knew it was shallow, he knew it was silly, but it meant a lot that John liked the way he looked. There were a lot of people who had a problem with the way he dressed. He wore a lot of black. He loved skulls, things with rips or tears in them. Every pair of shoes, and every belt he owned had studs on them. Occasionally, he’d even wear eyeliner.  
  
And Sherlock loved it; he loved the way he dressed. He felt comfortable, he felt like he was being who he was meant to be. Most people didn’t share that sentiment.  
  
But John – John didn’t mind.  
  
***  
  
The pair spent only a few moments more embracing before untangling their limbs. Sherlock stood and was heading for the hatch when John stopped him.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Home. I just thought, I mean, there’s still three and a half hours before our date.”  
  
“So what? I’ll turn on Netflix for you and I’ll finish my work, then we can go. Uhm, unless you wanted to go home first, of course.”  
  
“That won’t distract you?”  
  
“Nah.”  
  
Sherlock walked over to the small loveseat and curled up in the corner of it. That was kind of his thing. He liked sitting in corners; it made him feel protected. He wished John would be sitting next to him but he knew John would be at the desk near the loft window working. He couldn’t help but look admiringly up at John. It’s not like he was doing anything extraordinary. All John was doing was getting Netflix on the screen, but God, he just looked so lovely doing it.  
  
“You like Buffy?”  
  
“Never seen it,” he shrugged, a small hint of shame crossing his face.  
  
The smile on John’s face made Sherlock’s heart jump. He smiled back while John scrolled through his list on Netflix, finally finding Buffy and clicking ‘ _play’.  
  
_ “One day, we’ll do a proper marathon of it!”  
  
Now, Sherlock was almost completely sure that if this were the Victorian era, he’d be swooning at the implication. He could just imagine it.  
  
One day they’d have their own flat in the heart of London, away from John’s father and the memories of his sister, away from Mycroft, away from everything but what mattered: the two of them. They’d order takeaway and drink copious amounts of coffee and stay up for days watching reruns of a long since cancelled American cult classic. It’s a tradition they would partake in every month. The thought of it made Sherlock want to cry. He wished they could do that right now. He wished they were grown up and on their own. He wished it were just the two of them against the rest of the world.  
  
They sat in silence minus the sound of monsters _grr argh’_ ing, vampires turning to ash (who’d have known that had a noise?), and a tiny blonde girl wishing her life were different.  
  
Sherlock could relate. Maybe not so much about the supernatural aspect – although he **_did_** compare himself to a vampire earlier – but he knew how it felt not fitting in. To have something about you that made you different than everybody else. He suspected John could relate as well even though he was one of the most popular boys in school. Sherlock found that he was so utterly enthralled by everything about this series that he didn’t realize the time, or that John was sitting beside him, waiting for the fourth episode to finish.  
  
When it did, John clicked the pause button, smirking.  
  
“Like it?”  
  
“I’ll never tell.”  
  
Sherlock was baffled when John burst into laughter. He was laughing so hard he was clutching his stomach and tears were starting to stream down his cheeks.  
  
“What? What’s so funny?”  
  
John didn’t reply, his hysteria still getting the best of him.  
  
“JOHN! Stop! What’s funny?”  
  
Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted until John’s laughing died down, waiting for an explanation of some kind.  
  
“Sorry. I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John apologized, wiping a teardrop away. “You’ll understand when you see the sixth season.”  
  
“I could just Google it.”  
  
“Aw, don’t! Promise you won’t!”  
  
“Fine. I’ll promise not to look it up if you promise you’ll be the one to watch it with me.”  
  
John held out his pinky finger to Sherlock who left him hanging.  
  
“It’s called a pinky promise. We lock pinky fingers. It’s like a contract!”  
  
“That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“Just do it!”  
  
Sherlock huffed and held his hand out, the way John had his. He didn’t really understand the concept, nor did he want to, so he left it up to John to finish the gesture. Their pinky’s tangled together and then John shook their joined hands, a giant grin on his face.  
  
It was mind-boggling how John was such a bright light in such a dark world. John had been through so much. He had lost his sister, his father was a drunken bastard, and he hasn’t even mentioned his mother. Sherlock, on the other hand, had lost virtually nothing and yet for sixteen years, all he’s seen is darkness. Nothing traumatic happened to him to make him that way. But at the same time, he was glad he was the one with a hole inside. He was glad it wasn’t John. The entire planet would be dimmer without John’s infectious presence.  
  
“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”  
  
“I’m not looking at you any way. Are we leaving now?”  
  
“Yeah. Let’s go.”


	14. You're Not Normal and That's Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's date-night for Sherlock and John, but it's not without its bumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Triggers:** none
> 
> Hello! Sorry for the long break between chapters! I descended into MCU hell and I had the chapter written but I hated it so I deleted it and re-wrote it. I'm still not 100% happy with it but I'm just not great with fluff. I needed some angst. 
> 
> Also: All the scenes I've deleted have been saved and when the fic is completed, I'll add a second part with all the deleted bits :) The next few chapters are going to come a lot quicker. I'm nearly done the next one already :) 
> 
> Personal tumblr: [avelana-in-wonderland](http://avelana-in-wonderland.tumblr.com)  
> Johnlock tumblr: [longlive-johnlock](http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com)*  
> *Please note my previous Johnlock blog was [johnlockwonderland](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com) but is no longer active. It will redirect you to the new blog.

“Have you seen this movie before?” John asked, still chewing on a few bits of popcorn.  
  
Sherlock silently shook his head.  
  
Logically, he knew he didn’t have a reason to be so nervous. Deep in the dark abyss of his brain, he was distinctly aware that he was on this date because John cared about him, and he about John. His emotions, however, were not playing along. They were getting the better of him, as always. He’s always excelled at anything you could consider academic, and Sherlock has always been proud to call himself a rational human being, especially after he learned to shut the world out. Unfortunately for his deteriorating pride, he was beginning to realize that his emotions ruled him. They ruled over him like an empire, and it only amplifies when he is near that pesky blonde boy who stitched him up months ago.  
  
“It’s one of my absolute favourites. D’ya like it so far?”  
  
“It’s black and white,” Sherlock muttered.  
  
“It’s scarier that way!”  
  
Sherlock’s sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes, flicking a piece of popcorn at John’s cheek, stifling a giggle when John flinched in surprise.  
  
“Seriou—“  
  
A handful of popcorn bounced off of John, scattering all around them.  
  
“I’m going to get you back, Sherlock Holmes. I am,” John playfully threatened. “When you least expect it.”  
  
“Considering this is your favourite film, you sure are making me miss an awful lot of it by chattering away.”  
  
John’s jaw dropped, taken aback, and Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, trying to breathe through the nausea that was storming within his intestines, the acid he could feel rising in his throat. A roar of laughter tore away the terror that was clinging to him like skin. Nausea was replaced with shock; he could feel every inch of his body tingle with relief.  
  
“Alright, alright, I’ll shut up.” John paused. “On one condition.”  
  
“I’m not one to follow rules.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Smiling confidently, John relaxed his forearm atop the armrest between them, his palm open and facing up, fingers slightly spread apart invitingly. Sherlock stared at the offered affection, blinking rapidly in disbelief. He stubbornly refused to look anywhere else but down, petrified that if he looked away for just a moment, the hand in front of him would no longer be waiting. The mere thought of that happening made Sherlock lose his breath; his lungs contracted, his chest tightened, and his throat closed. Sherlock’s leg started bouncing, almost to the point of spasms.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“I –“  
  
His legs carried him down the stairs and out of the theatre before he could finish vocalizing his thoughts. Sherlock zigzagged around the few people loitering in the lobby, spotting two vending machines that had space between them. He rushed over, the muscles in his thighs quaking, and slid down between the machines, curling up as much as he could. Angrily, he threw his head back, smacking brutally into the cinderblock behind him. When there was only a dull, barely there throbbing, he tipped his head back again and knocked it against the wall. He closed his eyes and repeatedly allowed his skull to connect with the cement, a soothing sort of rhythm building, his frustration with himself no longer having a crippling effect.  
  
For a solid twenty minutes, Sherlock banged his head against the wall, waiting for John. He didn’t particularly want to see John at this moment, but this was John’s modus operandi. Ever since they became friends, John was there when Sherlock didn’t want him to be, and so it became expected.  
  
But John never came.  
  
John didn’t come and tug him out from his temporary sanctuary, nor did he come to convince him why repeated blows to the head were a bad thing.  
  
Finally, Sherlock felt like he could breathe again. Everything inside his chest burned, and though he didn’t cry, the rims of his eyes felt raw.  
  
Sherlock scooted forward and used the edges of the machines beside him to pull himself up. He slid his mobile out of his pocket and poked at it until he got to the messaging program, contemplating whether he should send John a text. Truthfully, he wanted to; but he didn’t know what he wanted to say.  
  
What _could_ he say? _“I’m sorry for panicking when you wanted to hold hands, I’m sorry I’m so fucked up and can’t go on a date like a regular kid our age.”_  
  
Somehow, he didn’t think that would go over very well.  
  
He sighed and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He turned around and nearly collided with John. Sherlock gasped and jumped back.  
  
“Hello,” he murmured weakly.  
  
“Hey. Can I get you anything? Water, maybe some tea?”  
  
“I-I’m fine.”  
  
“Listen, Sherlock…”  
  
“Ah. Here it comes.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“This is the part where you realize I’m not worth the headache,” Sherlock answered. “This is the part of the story, John, where you walk away because the guilt will be easier to handle. I have to admit; you’ve lasted far longer than I thought you would!”  
  
“What?!” John exclaimed.  
  
“Oh, do try to be less obvious,” he spat, turning to walk away.  
  
It never ceased to amaze him how quickly he could build walls around himself. If he believed in magic, he’d attribute it to that.  
  
The way his mind worked was fascinating. When others threatened to hurt him, when someone else had the potential to harm him, something inside of him was triggered. Yet, he found it intoxicating when he hurt himself. He assumed he just hated the idea of someone having the power to affect his emotions, but every so often, he wonders if he’s just scared. Scared of handing over a part of himself and trusting someone else not to drop it. To drop _him._  
  
It was never the fall that frightened Sherlock. It was the landing.  
  
“Sherlock. Stop,” John begged, grabbing Sherlock’s forearm.  
  
“ _Why?_ ” he hissed.  
  
“Because I wasn’t going to say _any_ of that! I wanted to apologize. I shouldn’t have done that. I thought it would be romantic or cute, or something.”  
  
Sherlock’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his false accusations.  
  
“If I were normal, it would have been,” Sherlock confided quietly.  
  
Sherlock pulled his arm free of John’s grip and held out the hand closest to John, his heart pounding violently against his sternum.  
  
“I never said I wanted normal,” John smiled.  
  
John lined his palm up with Sherlock’s, barely touching at all, allowing Sherlock to be the one to tangle their fingers together.  
  
Sherlock weaved his fingers between John’s and curled his fingers, his fingertips pressing against John’s knuckles. Without thinking, Sherlock stepped forward, their chests nearly touching.  
  
“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop apologizing for my perpetual broken state.”  
  
“Even if I don’t want you to be sorry?”  
  
“Especially then,” Sherlock paused. “John?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Can I… I mean, that is, do you think it would be acceptable if I – if we – kissed?”  
  
John smiled brightly and nodded, bringing his free hand up to caress Sherlock’s cheek, gently using his fingers to pull Sherlock even closer. Sherlock leaned forward, his other hand lightly grasping John’s bent elbow. He noted the way John was allowing him to close the space between them this time, and his heart all but liquefied in his chest. Sherlock ducked his head down and pressed his lips against John’s, his insecurities and anxiety not stopping him.  
  
Their first kiss the day before had been full of desire and passion, eager tongues and lips that dripped with longing. It was beautiful despite the clichéd rain. Sherlock couldn’t have asked for a greater first kiss.  
  
But this kiss was different. It was neither better nor worse, but it was the kind of kiss that Sherlock could imagine happening a lot should their relationship continue to advance. He could just see it. One of them would be on their way to class in uni and they’d share a quick kiss; or perhaps it would be a morning years from now when they were both off to work. See, it was fabulous when it was chalk-full of lust, but very few things compared to a kiss that became habit. The kind you almost wouldn’t remember happening because it was such a usual occurrence.  
  
Those were dangerous thoughts for Sherlock.  
  
“I’m afraid we’ve missed quite a bit of the film,” he whispered, his lips grazing John’s.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“I’m not an expert, John, much to my dismay. What should we do now since I’ve effectively ruined our first date?”  
  
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed.  
  
“Technically, it’s true! I didn’t say it ended _badly_!”  
  
John chuckled and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. They regretfully pulled away from each other, but Sherlock didn’t release John’s hand. Instead, he tightened his grip.  
  
“Well, do you want to come over?”  
  
“Er…”  
  
“No! That’s… definitely not what I meant. Not for, uhm, _that_ ,” John stuttered. “I mean, one day, I h-hope we can, not tonight, but uhm. Christ.”  
  
“What would we do? If not have sex?”  
  
“Did you _want_ to have sex?!”  
  
“No,” Sherlock blushed. “It’s been my understanding, though, that when someone is asked back to someone else’s place of residence after a date, it usually leads to some kind of sexual act.”  
  
“I thought we could just talk. We do better when we just talk and not conform to society’s dumb standards for dating.”  
  
“No pressure to have sex?”  
  
“None. Besides, I don’t believe for one moment that anybody could pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do.”  
  
For the most part, John was correct. He missed one very important fact, however. Somehow, John still didn’t understand that he wasn’t just _anybody_. He was John Watson. To Sherlock, he was the exception to everything. There wasn’t a single doubt buried in the depths of his mind of what he would do if John asked him. One thing Sherlock would _not_ do was fix the inaccuracy of John’s comment.  
  
Together, they walked out of the building and into the night


	15. The Only Place I Know Is By Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John start their night of talking and getting to know each other even better. It gets real deep real fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Triggers:  
> **  
>  -Mentions of Sherlock's cutting but no new self-harm  
> -Quite a bit of self loathing...
> 
>  
> 
> Personal tumblr: [avelana-in-wonderland](http://avelana-in-wonderland.tumblr.com)  
> Johnlock tumblr: [longlive-johnlock](http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com)*  
>  _*please note that my **old** Johnlock blog is [johnlockwonderland](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com). The blog still exists but it will redirect you to the new one._
> 
>  
> 
> [Spotify playlist](https://play.spotify.com/user/johnlockwonderland/playlist/3SgL9ZFufgn6wY1v8L5HUG)

****_9:53pm_  
  
Sherlock and John sat facing each other, cross-legged, on the sofa in John’s room, their knees and shins softly touching, pressing together. The only light came from the street lamps shining into the window, and the dimly setting sun.  
  
“Should we have any boundaries?” John asked.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Talking. Like, can I ask you about personal things and you answer without lying, and vice versa?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Well, I’ll answer anything, personally. I don’t really have anything to hide.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“So, no rules?”  
  
“No rules,” Sherlock confirmed.  
  
John smiled, and the corners of Sherlock’s lips twitched upwards. It was like a chemical reaction. John smiled, grinned, laughed, did anything to light up the world, and it was like a warm spring day after a treacherous winter. You couldn’t help but smile back, even if you didn’t want to. It’s something that just happened. It was a conclusion he came to every single time.  
  
“Favourite colour?”  
  
“Seriously, John?”  
  
“Seriously, Sherlock. Favourite colour. Go.”  
  
“Black.”  
  
“That’s not a colour.”  
  
Sherlock groaned loudly, irritated already with this inane question.  
  
“You asked!”  
  
“Fine. Mine is green. Well. Sometimes it’s blue. Your turn.”  
  
“My turn?”  
  
John sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes. Ask me something!”  
  
“Oh. Uhm. What’s your favourite chemical compound?”  
  
“I can’t say I have one, to be honest.”  
  
“How do you ****_not_ have a favourite?” Sherlock exclaimed. “We might have to rethink this honesty thing, John.”  
  
“Alright, Mr. Scientist, what’s _your_ favourite, then?”  
  
“Right now, it’s Draculin.”  
  
“Sounds like the chemical lovechild of the nefarious Dracula,” John snorted.  
  
“Not quite. It’s a protein found in vampire bat saliva! It’s really very fascinating.”  
  
Sherlock uncrossed his legs and brought his knees up to his chest, and scooted slightly forward, bringing himself closer to John. Instead of wrapping both arms around his shins, he anxiously settled a hand on John’s knee. He pushed past his nerves and cupped denim-clad joint firmly. Sherlock had to fight the urge to audibly gasp when John’s hand covered his own – and the panic that was rattling the bones underneath his skin. John offered a reassuring squeeze, feeling the tension as Sherlock tried to show affection without desperately needing to run away.  
  
“Okay, my turn,” John smiled. “What did you want to be when you were younger?”  
  
The question provoked a twitch from Sherlock.  
  
“A pirate,” he answered. “Although, if scientists somehow accomplish genetically altering humans into mermaids in our lifetime, I would undoubtedly volunteer.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I suppose I’ve always enjoyed bodies of water, especially the ocean.”  
  
“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” John admitted.  
  
“M-Maybe one day we’ll do a trip to the coast. If you wanted.”  
  
“Tell me what it’s like.”  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pondered for a minute, wanting to convey how spectacular the ocean is and why he feels so connected to it.  
  
“It’s like you’re simultaneously standing at the beginning and the end of the Earth. You’re standing on the coast, and the land is ending, but the ocean is just beginning. Behind you, the edge of the world, and in front of you is oblivion. It’s something so unknown, so undiscovered, and you’re inches away from exploring it, from finding out all of its secrets,” he murmured. “In some ways, it’s like me. It can be so calm on the surface, so soft looking, and then you dive in and the currents try to devour you. Other times, a storm rolls in, and waves crash every which way, claiming sailors and sea life, and you can tell without going under that it’s the most dangerous place.”  
  
“Wow.”  
  
“The first time you experience it, it’s like nothing else. You almost try and chase that feeling for the rest of your life. I have yet to find anything that remotely comes close to it.”  
  
“Well, I’m convinced,” John paused. “Wait. That still doesn’t explain the aspirations of being a pirate.”  
  
“Doesn’t it? Think, John! There are very few occupations where I could live on the waters!”  
  
John shook his head fondly, his eyes sparkling with adoration.  
  
“My turn, yes?”  
  
John nodded in response.  
  
“Okay. Does your team know you’re gay?”  
  
“I’m not gay. But yeah, yeah they know I’m bi.”  
  
“And they’re … okay… with it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Some are, I think. Like Stamford, and Murray. There are always arseholes like Anderson, though. I don’t know if he cares, he’s smart enough not to say anything to my face. Not that I care what he thinks, honestly.”  
  
John lifted Sherlock’s hand off of his knee and held it in the air as he unfolded his legs and stretched them out, a leg on either side of Sherlock, watching for signs of discomfort in Sherlock’s posture. Satisfied, he lowered their hands onto his thigh.  
  
“Sherlock? I have a question and I know we said no boundaries but I don’t want to spook you so if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“What is it about holding hands that bothers you, and why is kissing okay? Just so we’re clear; I’m not complaining. I’m just curious.”  
  
“It doesn’t _bother_ me,” Sherlock huffed. “It makes me anxious.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I obviously have very limited experiences compared to you –“  
  
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“You’re a football star! Are you genuinely telling me you have _zero_ intimate experiences?”  
  
John glared and conceded.  
  
“ _As I was saying_ , a lot of people believe kissing to be more intimate. Maybe to them, it is. For me, though, it’s holding hands. People kiss people they don’t like, or don’t want to date. Kissing is _fun_ and it can be intimate – I think – but holding hands is different. If you have no intention of dating someone, you aren’t going to want to hold their hand. It just implies more feelings. That’s…. scary to me.”  
  
“Alright, I get that. There’s more to it, though, isn’t there?”  
  
Sherlock’s brain quickly cursed John and his above average observation skills. He had hoped that his explanation would suffice. It was part of the reason why he felt holding hands was so intimate, it wasn’t as if he _lied_. He sighed quietly and slowly nodded his head.  
  
Before he added more, he let go of John’s hand, and unbent his legs, draping them over John’s thighs, shuffling closer, allowing John to settle his hands on his waist. He cleared his throat and began.  
  
“When you hold my hand,” he swallowed hard. “You’re holding the part of me that was physically responsible for the scars that adorn my body. You’re holding my hand as if it’s a precious, fragile thing, when it’s been the single most destructive part of me. They aren’t precious or fragile; they’re _dangerous_ , John.”  
  
Sherlock raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers.  
  
“These fingers, John. These are the fingers that gripped the knife when I cut my arm open. The cut _you_ stitched up. Your hands are healers hands, and my hands don’t deserve that.”  
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed, his heart crumbling in his chest.  
  
“I’m trying to work through it,” Sherlock shrugged helplessly.  
  
John walked his hands from Sherlock’s waist to behind his back, pulling him into a close hug. After admitting something so personal, Sherlock was feeling emotionally flat, and left his arms dangling at his sides, only burying his face into the crook of John’s neck.  
  
“Listen to me, alright?” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “You are _wrong_ about your hands. Do you know why?”  
  
“No,” he mumbled against John’s jumper. " _Obviously_."  
  
“Because they could have made the cuts deeper. Your brain and your hands worked in tandem, to make sure the cuts weren’t worthy of a hospital visit. I bet most of the time your brain was telling you to go deeper, harder, every time. You were more than capable. You would have known where to cut and how deep, Sherlock.”  
  
“I _love_ your hands because even though they’re doing really bad things to you, they’re also a part of why you’re breathing, and sitting here with me. Do you know sort of what I mean?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged and buried his face deeper into John’s neck, inhaling the scent of him, cataloguing it. John kissed his temple and tightened his hold.  
  
“You, Sherlock Holmes, are worthy of more than you know.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, trying to sniffle quietly and failing miserably.  
  
“Should I stop holding your hand for a while?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Okay. Do you think you’ll be able to try and tell me when to stop doing something instead of fleeing? Maybe we can have a special word.”  
  
“A special word?”  
  
“Yeah. Like, if you need space, or need me to back off, you just say, ‘dolphin’, or something.”  
  
“Dolphin? Why dolphin?”  
  
“It doesn’t strike me as something that will come up in regular conversation! It has to be a word neither of us uses all that often!”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock snorted, his nose wrinkling. “We can try it. I can’t guarantee anything.”  
  
John pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s temple and whispered, “I know.”  
  
“If we ever do go to the ocean, we’ll need a temporary word.”  
  
A rumble of a laugh escaped John’s lips and Sherlock smiled, elated to know that he had the ability to amuse John. He could spend the rest of his life hearing that laugh. Nothing could ever be wrong if he could listen to the sound of John Watson laughing for the entirety of his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick fyi...  
> I know I've left some comments unanswered and I'm sorry! It's not personal! I appreciate all of them so much. I'm just an introvert, and shy on top of it. My depression and anxiety have also been exceptionally bad the last few months (more like half a year) so sometimes I just don't really know how to reply despite how grateful I am.  
> So please don't take it personally if I don't reply..


	16. The Jaws of Self-Hatred Are No Match for John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John reveal more deep information about themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Triggers:  
> **  
>  -Sherlock's inner monologue about previous feelings of self-hatred  
> -Brief mentions of his self-harm scars  
> -John talks a little more about Harry's suicide
> 
>  
> 
> Personal tumblr: [avelana-in-wonderland](http://avelana-in-wonderland.tumblr.com)  
> Johnlock tumblr: [longlive-johnlock](http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com)*  
>  _*Note that my previous Johnlock blog[(johnlockwonderland)](http://johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com) is not active and will redirect you to the new one!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Song inspiration for this chapter:_  
>  Missing You by All Time Low  
> Listen on: [spotify](https://play.spotify.com/track/0c2yZp1tTYAUiKraMdS8Yg) || [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RR8RqQDcGEw) || [full lyrics here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/alltimelow/missingyou.html)

****_12:03am_  
  
The pair of them had set up on the floor for a change of pace. They lay on their backs upon several quilts and blankets, pillows surrounding them, their pinkie fingers intertwined delicately. In a perfect world, they would be staring at the stars and the moon, but tonight they were simply staring up at the wooden beams on John’s ceiling.  
  
Sherlock tried to keep his eyes closed, imagining a galaxy above them instead, full of shooting stars and meteor showers and things you couldn’t actually see from the ground, like nebulae and black holes. If anybody asked him, he would tell you he didn’t know what a constellation was, and he’d insist that he didn’t know what stars were made of, or that the planet he stands on orbits the sun. He would tell you it was unnecessary information taking up much needed space in his memory, because what bloody difference does it make if someone knows that the stars they see in the night sky are actually already dead?  
  
The truth was, Sherlock loved the wonders and mysteries and secrets the universe held. Space was like the ocean; undiscovered territory. He loved answers and science, but in a way, he hoped the human race wouldn’t learn everything there was to know about the natural world. It deserved to keep some of its secrets.  
  
Sherlock felt John’s pinkie uncurl from around his, and opened his eyes, pivoting his head to observe the boy at his side. John had shifted, shoving a pillow under his head and bending his knees up. Sherlock folded his hands under his head, fingers tangling slightly in his hair.  
  
“Are you tired?” John asked.  
  
“No. Are you?”  
  
“Nah.”  
  
Sherlock turned his head to peer at John again and smiled at him.  
  
“What’s your favourite song?”  
  
“Hmmm,” Sherlock contemplated. “It changes rather often.”  
  
“Alright, what’s _currently_ your favourite?”  
  
“Do you want to hear it?”  
  
“Yes! Absolutely, I do.”  
  
Nodding, Sherlock reached beside him, groping around for his mobile before his fingers found it. He disconnected it from the cord that was charging it and thumbed in his passcode, bringing up his home screen.  He tapped the red music icon in the bottom right corner and flicked the sound switch on the side, and began scrolling through the copious amounts of albums before landing on what he wanted. Breathing deeply through his nose, Sherlock glanced at John and tapped the _‘play’_ button, adjusting the volume once the strumming of a guitar started coming through the speakers. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and gulped nervously as the singer began singing the lyrics.  
  
_I heard that you’ve been self-medicating in the quiet of your room_  
Your sweet, suburban tomb.  
And if you need a friend,  
I’ll help you stitch up your wounds.  
  
I heard that you’ve been having some trouble finding your place in the world  
I know how much that hurts  
But if you need a friend  
_Then please just say the word._  
  
He itched to peek at John but he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. It was like there was a sudden layer of glue coating his eyelashes, clamping them down against his skin. It’s clichéd and tired to talk about music and how the lyrics are really just words you’ll never say, feelings you could never vocalize for fear it could lead to rejection or being ignored.  
  
The chorus blared through the speakers, filling Sherlock’s head with thoughts he never thought he’d have. Thoughts about someone missing him if he simply disappeared further into the jaws of self-hatred, spiralling into a chasm of darkness and never being able to climb out. Never _wanting_ to climb out. He wasn’t the kind of person that the world missed.  
  
But _John_ would miss him.  
  
And that was better than the world missing him.  
  
The song’s hook broke through the jungle of his thoughts, and in spite of himself, he _smiled_ and mouthed the words.  
  
Grit your teeth, pull your hair,  
Paint the walls black and scream,  
“Fuck the world, ‘cause it’s my life  
I’m gonna take it back!”  
And never for a second blame yourself.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t exactly ready to take his life back, in no uncertain terms. Frankly, he wasn’t entirely sure what his life should be, what he wanted it to be. The knowledge of feeling so lost was something that had always _terrified_ him, and it helped him stay where he was. He still didn’t know what he wanted out of life, but for the first time that he could remember, it wasn’t nearly as scary.  
  
Now don’t lose your fight, kid  
It only takes a little push to pull on through  
With so much left to do,  
You’ll be missing out  
And we’ll be missing you.  
  
Because now when he figured it out, he wouldn’t have to go through it on his own. Sherlock was positive it’s a sentiment he would often forget – probably tomorrow, even, but he was strangely proud of himself. Proud that a part of him, no matter how big or small, realized what he meant to John.  
  
“What’s this song called?”  
  
“Missing You by All Time Low,” Sherlock answered softly.  
  
“It’s not what I would have expected.”  
  
“Truth be told, it’s not really in line with what I usually listen to.”  
  
“What makes it so special?”  
  
Sherlock cautiously rolled onto his side, his head pillowed upon his bent arm. Out of the corner of his eye, the dozens of scars that covered the skin on his arms were visible. The wound John stitched up that fateful day outside of school had healed, but it was still raised and angry looking. He could feel it against his cheek. Bravely, he forced himself to keep his eyes open, settled on the shadowy figure beside him, as he answered.  
  
“I-It, uhm,” he cleared his throat roughly. “It reminds me of you.”  
  
John flipped over to face Sherlock, his face the epitome of shock.  
  
“Wait, _what_?”  
  
“When I feel like I want to fade into nothingness, you are always there to tell me that you’re my friend. You might not always say it, but I know you’d, uhm, miss me,” he shrugged. “Sometimes that’s all I need to climb down from the roof, instead of testing my ability to fly.”  
  
Both boys shifted, finding themselves nearly pressed together. The palm of Sherlock’s hand confidently found John’s cheek and smirked.  
  
“I wish we were drunk right now so you’d forget about this in the morning.”  
  
The roars of John’s laugh faintly startled Sherlock, but not nearly as much as the kiss that landed on his lips. It was hard and fast, fierce in all its glory.  
  
“I’m chuffed that we’re not, if I’m being honest with ya.”  
  
“I liked it better when I was a prick to you,” Sherlock deadpanned.  
  
“You had your moments.”  
  
Sherlock growled – audibly _growled_ – and playfully chomped on the tip of John’s nose.  
  
“You are officially six years old,” John sighed, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s tee shirt to get rid of the saliva.  
  
“Believe you me, Watson. You wouldn’t want to know six-year-old me. Your turn. What’s your favourite song?”  
  
“Revolution by The Beatles.”  
  
“Original.”  
  
“You are also officially _still_ a prick.”  
  
Sherlock snorted in agreement and chuckled, flipping onto his stomach, a fluffy decorative pillow trapped between his arms and the side of his face.  
  
“John? Tell me something about you that nobody else knows.”  
  
“Mmm…. I hate mushy peas.”  
  
“Who the bloody hell _doesn’t_? And how the bloody hell do I avoid people who _like_ them? Tell me something real.”  
  
Sighing theatrically, John got to his feet and stalked over to his bed, and began shaking out his rumpled blanket, a fuzzy brown teddy bear tumbling down to the mattress. John scooped it up into his arms and tossed it at Sherlock.  
  
“You…sleep with a teddy bear?”  
  
“Well, it’s not like I snuggle it, Sherlock!”  
  
“Sorry. What’s the significance?”  
  
“It was Harry’s. Sort of. It was meant to be hers,” John reminisced sadly. “The first time she tried to kill herself, I bought this and I was going to give it to her, but I never really got the chance. Probably a good thing, really. Harry would have positively _hated_ it.”  
  
“Why do you keep it?”  
  
John shrugged thoughtfully.  
  
“I guess it offers some sort of misguided comfort.”  
  
Sherlock tossed the teddy bear back to John and sat up, sliding back until he hit the sofa behind him. John plopped down beside him. Both of them had their legs stretched out in front of them, and John took the opportunity to drape his ankle over Sherlock’s.  
  
They sat in a comfortable silence for half of an hour, Sherlock lounging solidly against John, his head settled upon the blonde’s broad, muscular shoulder.  
  
“Hey, I know what we can do. Take off your shirt,” John exclaimed excitedly.  
  
Sherlock straightened his spine and gawked at John, a surge of insecurity flowed through his bones, igniting every single nerve in his lean body.  
  
“Oh! No! Not that. I want to paint on your back,” he hesitated. “Nope. Still sounds inappropriate. One second.”  
  
John abruptly sprang to his feet, bolted across the room, and dug around in his closet, flinging clothing out behind him until he found the large shoebox he had been searching for. He carried it over to Sherlock and set it on the ground, opening it, revealing paintbrushes and pots of non-toxic paints.  
  
He smiled shyly at Sherlock and began rearranging their fort of blankets and pillows. John set a few pillows parallel to his sofa, so that Sherlock could at least have a window to look at rather than a wooden wall. Several quilts were folded once in half and stacked atop each other, creating a makeshift mattress. Surveying his work, he hummed unsatisfied.  
  
“Ah-ha!”  
  
John plugged his laptop into an extension cord and placed it a foot in front of the pillows. His fingers flew across the keyboard, opening his browser and typing in the web-address for Netflix.  
  
“Let’s see where you left off,” John clicked away. “Oh.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing, just, the fifth episode has kind of an amusing title considering…”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Never Kill a Boy on the First Date,” John tried to reply without giggling. His resolve broke when Sherlock tipped sideways and clutched his stomach, laughing a full, hearty laugh.  
  
“That is unquestionably the most laughable coincidence,” Sherlock choked out breathlessly.  
  
“I swear I didn’t plan that!”  
  
“Oh, of _course_ not.”  
  
“Ah, shaddup, Sherlock! I’m going to go fill up a few glasses of water, so, uhm…”  
  
“Remove my shirt?”  
  
“Yes,” John coughed awkwardly. “Lay on your stomach and don’t start the episode without me! Two minutes.”  
  
Sherlock glanced lovingly at John as he descended from the loft. He shook his head, awestruck at all of the things John was capable of making him feel. One day, he would write a list, and hopefully, he could continue to add to it.  
  
He crossed his arms in front of his torso, grabbed the hem of his Radiohead tee, and pulled it up over his head, laying it flat on John’s bed. The sound of John shuffling up the stairs hastened his movements tenfold. Sherlock kneeled on the stack of blankets and bent down, shifting and repositioning himself until he was sufficiently comfortable. His arms were folded under his head, his forearms cushioning his chin.  
  
The moment John climbed the wooden ladder into his room, the atmosphere changed drastically. If Sherlock hadn’t heard John’s footsteps, he would have felt the difference in the air. Sherlock gulped apprehensively, feeling as though he was on display. He silently cursed his decision to wear low-riding skinny jeans. The waistband settled just above the swell of his arse.  
  
John was purposely noisy as he set up, three different canisters of paint, and one empty, on the right side of Sherlock. One glass of water sat alongside the paint, several spares lined up on his desk a few feet away. He took the liberty of pressing the ‘ _play’_ button on his laptop, the sound of Giles’ voice filling the room.  
  
“Ready, then?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I went back to Chapter 10 and changed the age of John and Molly when Harry died! They were 13, she was 16. :)


	17. I Would Tattoo Every Word You've Said To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns something new about Sherlock, and Sherlock tries his hand at affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Triggers:**  
>  -Mentions of cutting but no actual self-harm.  
> -Mentions of domestic abuse (brief, not overly graphic)
> 
> [personal tumblr](http://avelana-in-wonderland.tumblr.com) | [ johnlock tumblr](http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com) | [pretty little liars tumblr](http://prettylittleliarsxxxx.tumblr.com)   
> [Surviving Feels A Lot Like Dying Spotify Playlist](https://player.spotify.com/user/johnlockwonderland/playlist/3SgL9ZFufgn6wY1v8L5HUG)

_12:58am  
_  
Sherlock heard the thumping of John’s knees against the hardwood floor, the rustling of unknown items beside him.  
  
“I’m, er, I’m just going to tuck a towel under your waistband. If that’s okay.”  
  
“A-Alright.”  
  
The feather-light touch of John’s fingers grazing underneath his jeans made him jump, his entire body twitching. He blew out a breath, embarrassed, and focused on the ultra soft fabric against his skin.  
  
“Wait, what’s th— do you have a _tattoo_ of a bee?!”  
  
“How observant of you, John.”  
  
He was grateful his mouth was partially hidden by his forearms, because he couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto his face.  
  
“But you’re underage! Did Mycroft sign something…?”  
  
A bubble of laughter erupted from Sherlock.  
  
“God, no.”  
  
“How then? Please tell me you didn’t do this by yourself.”  
  
“John. It’s on my lower back. I’m adept at many things – contortion is _not_ one of them, I’m quite sorry to say.”  
  
“Well, that’s somewhat of a relief.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his chin to the side, cheek resting comfortably on the back of his hand. He peered at John as best he could.  
  
“I simply persuaded an artist to waive the consent form.”  
  
“I’m afraid to ask.”  
  
“To ask what, John?”  
  
“How you persuaded someone to _tattoo a bee_ on a fifteen year old!” John exclaimed.  
  
Sighing, Sherlock explained. “I was attempting to use a fake ID at Speedy’s Tattoo Shoppe. The owner impressively saw right through it. She gestured to leave by flicking her wrist and pointing at the door, and I saw that her wrists were covered in bruises – as if someone had forcefully grabbed her.”  
  
“What did you do after that?”  
  
“I talked to her,” Sherlock shrugged. “Hudders offered me biscuits and tea while she finished a tattoo of a cat on some wretched blonde lady. After, she closed up and I encouraged her to call the police. She didn’t want to, she was afraid he wouldn’t get charged.”  
  
“Oh, Christ. You killed him, didn’t you?”  
  
“For crying out loud, could you be more dramatic? No, I didn’t bloody kill him. Not technically, at least.”  
  
“What do you mean ‘ _not technically’_?”  
  
“I ensured he got the death sentence. There was more than enough evidence.”  
  
“Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think wife-beaters get death penalties.”  
  
“That was his lightest crime. He was an infamous arms dealer who had been starting to make a name for himself in international sex trafficking. Not to mention his penchant for _murder._ ”  
  
“ _Jesus_ ,” John muttered, rubbing his forehead.  
  
“She said I was as sweet as honey and to pick something small from the display next time I came in. I told her I already knew what I wanted. A honeybee."  
  
“I didn’t think it was possible to adore you more than I already do.”  
  
Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and turned his head further, his chin resting on his shoulder as he looked back at John.  
  
“What would you have done if I said I had killed him?”  
  
John pondered for a moment before replying.  
  
“I would have told you to _never_ tell me where you hid the body because I am bloody rubbish at lying.”  
  
Another bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, filling the air around them. The truth was, he was dumbstruck by John’s answer. Anyone who was normal would have run, showed some sign of distress or concern at a question such as the one Sherlock had just asked. For months now, Sherlock was realizing that John could always surprise him, that John wasn’t just anyone.  
  
Now, Sherlock was also realizing that maybe, just maybe, _John_ wasn’t _normal_ either. And somehow, Sherlock felt that being unusual wasn’t such a terrible thing anymore. It was another reason he didn’t feel alone – or at least, not nearly as alone as he had felt before John. Sherlock snorted quietly, thinking about how much everything had changed. He’d spent years surrounding himself with barbed wire, perfecting the art of being numb, and somehow, _somehow,_ John had managed to disassemble his fences, he had managed to force Sherlock to experience his feelings and not run from them.  
  
Sherlock had his life _before_ John, and he had his life _after_ John. He felt it was such a preposterous notion, but he couldn’t be arsed to care because nobody else in the world had what he had.  
  
He smiled shyly at John before lowering back down; chin resting once again on his forearms, torso flat against the blankets beneath him.  
  
“Any requests?”  
  
“Surprise me,” Sherlock murmured. “As best you can, that is. I’ll likely guess before you’re finished.”  
  
Sherlock could practically hear John’s eyes roll. He did, however, hear John start preparing, swirling the paintbrush in water again before tapping it against the glass, excess water drip dropping down against the surface, no doubt creating tiny ripples.  
  
The smallest of shivers took over his body as the brush hit his skin for the first time. He whispered an apology for moving. The second stroke was less jolting, the third even less so. By the sixth, he didn’t feel an urge to even flinch.  
  
“Did it hurt?”  
  
“Mm, did what hurt?”  
  
“The tattoo.”  
  
“Oh. A little bit, I suppose. It was actually…” he paused. “It was therapeutic.”  
  
“In what way, exactly?”  
  
“It was a good way to overcome the desire to cut for a while.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Indeed. In fact, I think I will pursue more tattoos in the future. It wasn’t an open wound that was so appealing to me, John. It was the pain, and the blood. Cutting was a way to eradicate emotions and stress from my veins. This was a way to relieve the stress in a more universally beautiful way.”  
  
“I have to say, I’m not sure it’s the best idea to quit one vice and pick up another. Innit a bit like trading in a drug addiction for a drinking problem?”  
  
“I don’t believe it is, no,” Sherlock stated stubbornly. “Mutilating any inch of skin I can reach is dangerous and potentially fatal, with scars that fade but never go away. I can’t think of an instance where tattoos would be fatal unless it was done in an alley or in the back of a vehicle.”  
  
Sherlock was met with a somewhat uncomfortable silence.  
  
“It’s just art, John, with a very beneficial therapeutic component for me.”  
  
John grunted and continued painting, dragging the brush down Sherlock’s back, contouring every delicious curve. The paint cooled Sherlock’s skin, his nerves tingling at every brushstroke.  
  
John continued to paint, silently, as Sherlock focused his attention on the laptop screen, snorting every now and then at the witty dialogue.  
  
Two episodes and several small conversations later, John announced he was just adding a few more minor details. The paint used was a fast drying kind, the type meant for body art. Sherlock felt small dots of the brush, short lines presumably adding depth to whatever it is John had painted. A question was plaguing his thoughts and he finally decided to ask it.  
  
“Where’d you learn to do this?"  
  
“Harry. She was always the more artistic one, but she taught me a few things. I haven’t used paints since… well. Since. It was never really my thing.”  
  
“Why have you spent two hours on this, then, John?”  
  
“Because I had an idea and I thought it’d look gorgeous on you.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
When no other words left Sherlock’s mouth, John chuckled and asked, “What, did I just render the brilliant Sherlock Holmes _speechless_?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock growled. “Hurry up, I want to see and I’m starting to cramp.”  
  
“Alright, alright, just one minute.”  
  
John dipped the brush into the pot of black paint and added his final touch, a tiny heart on the lower left area of Sherlock’s back, directly across from the tattoo. He grinned at his work and bent down, pressing a light kiss to the bee, relishing the way Sherlock shivered at the touch.  
  
“Okay. Done. Don’t roll onto your back, let me help you up, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and pressed up onto the palms of his hands and curled his legs forward, bringing his knees in under his torso. He felt John’s fingers lightly touching him, ready to help if needed. Regularly, it wouldn’t be much of a problem, but Sherlock’s legs and feet were definitely asleep at this point, tingling uncomfortably every time he moved them. He moved his hands to his thighs and straightened his spine, now kneeling.  
  
“Alright?” John asked.  
  
“Yes, fine.”  
  
He pushed up onto his feet and nearly fell back to the ground, would have if not for John catching him and propping him up.  
  
“Shut up, John.”  
  
“I said nothing.”  
  
Sherlock begrudgingly clutched John’s shoulder, fingers twisting into his jumper, as John led him to his closet, the only mirror in his bedroom. He let John position him, his back directly in front of the reflective surface, a few steps away. If it were anyone else, Sherlock would have peeked already, but it was quite obvious John wanted to surprise him, and more than anything in the world, Sherlock wanted to please John.  
  
“Okay. You can look.”  
  
The nervousness present in John’s voice warmed Sherlock’s heart in a twisted, selfish way. It was a hard thing to get over, the feeling of being able to make someone nervous. He’d spent his entire life making people nervous, but it was an entirely different way. They were nervous he’d blow up the school by accident. They were nervous he’d deduce someone’s darkest secrets. They were nervous of him even existing. But the nervousness John held was about wanting to impress Sherlock. Nobody ever wanted to impress him.  
  
He shot a smile at John before twisting his neck while keeping his torso relatively still, chin coming to a rest on his shoulder as he took in the image on his skin. His breath caught in his throat, his jaw would have dropped had it not been on his shoulder.  
  
A large skull, nearly abstract in its imperfections, painted in white and black graced his back, with an understated steel blue colour filling in the negative space. His eyes scanned over every inch, learning the delicate curves, memorizing as best he could the soft shading, the minute details. He noted the way John had carefully painted around his tattoo, yet still made it look as if it were part of the painting. His eyes darted across his lower back, the small heart like a beacon of light. Logically, rationally, Sherlock knew an inaccurate portrayal of the human heart shouldn’t affect him the way it did, however, at this moment in time, he was not feeling logical nor rational.  
  
“D’ya like it?” John asked quietly, nerves still apparent.  
  
Words escaped him. There was no possible way he could vocalize how much he loved it, there weren’t any words beautiful enough, or worthy enough, to describe it. Nothing could conceivably convey what he was thinking which was a first. He’d like to think it’d be the only time something like that would happen but he knew better now not to underestimate John and his powers to absolutely decimate every illusion Sherlock had.  
  
Slowly, he turned his head, facing forward, finding John’s eyes with his own. Silently he shuffled forward until he was about to collide with the anxious blonde boy standing in front of him. Sherlock cautiously, shyly, placed his hands on John’s hips, pulling John towards him, into him, against him. His grip tightened ever so slightly as John instinctively raised his arms, open palms settled flat against Sherlock’s bare pectorals. The pounding in his chest was nearing on painful, and it echoed in his ears. He felt the drumming of his heart throughout his entire body, his nerve-endings vibrating. Sherlock wasn’t sure this would ever become a habit, something that didn’t turn his intestines inside out.  
  
Feeling like the world had frozen in place, Sherlock took his time, lowering his lips to John’s tantalizingly, frustratingly slowly. Their lips met, softly, so softly, as Sherlock tenderly suckled on Johns’ bottom lip, gently nipping at it and lovingly gliding his tongue across. Sherlock whined quietly when John lightly dug the tips of his fingers into Sherlock’s chest, his lips parting, their tongues eagerly colliding. He squeezed John’s hips before wrapping his arms tightly around him. Sherlock’s hands slipped under the hem of John’s jumper, his fingers travelling up the muscles, mentally filing away each curve, each line, each dimple.  
  
Sherlock pressed several firm kisses against John’s lips and continued them in a line to his jaw and down the side of his neck. He affectionately rubbed his cheek against John’s chest, the fabric of his jumper lightly scratching Sherlock’s skin, John’s hands finding their way to Sherlock’s shoulders.  
  
“Is that a yes, then?” John whispered.  
  
The only way Sherlock replied was by burying his head into John’s sternum and squeezing him tighter, still clutching John’s back. He hummed quietly, the sound muffled, getting lost in the air that had become thick with fondness.  
  
Nearly ten minutes later, John delicately ruffled Sherlock’s disheveled curls and Sherlock reluctantly pulled away.  
  
“Where’s the loo?” Sherlock asked, pulling his shirt over his head.  
  
“Oh, at the end of the hallway.”  
  
Sherlock felt blush creep up his neck as he observed John’s rumpled jumper, and hastily lowered the ladder and descended down into the long, darkened corridor. Trying to be as noiseless as he possibly could, he tiptoed across the hall until he reached the bathroom door.  
  
After washing his hands and splashing a bit of water on his face, he flipped the light switch off, opened the door.  
  
He sauntered out into the hallway and crashed into somebody who was built like a tank. Sherlock stumbled, catching himself on the wall, muttering obscenities. Once he gathered his bearings, he quickly remembered that whomever he ran into was decidedly _not_ John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note that I don't advocate tattoos as a self-harm method. It's just something I've found that really clears my head in a way that self-harm used to, but it has a more lovely after product. I don't regret a single tattoo I have**


	18. Shadows and Monsters In Hallways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John's father for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I know it's been a long time since my last update and I'm so sorry! Please know that I will never abandon this fic, it WILL be finished. As for my explanation: in short, my mental health has been less than stellar for a while. My depression and anxiety have been so bad and my doctor and I have been playing with my meds for the last several months. I think I'm finally on a medication that is helping more than others. 
> 
> I also binge-read and watched Harry Potter for the first time because of my trip to London! Which, by the way, I'm in London right now, hello! I'm here until the end of September, and most of my nights so far have been me sitting in the business lounge of my hotel writing and crying about Johnlock so. Anyway. I'm sorry for the long pause between updates! <3 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @ **[longlive-johnlock](http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com)**
> 
> **TRIGGERS:**   
>  _-Homophobic slurs_  
>  -Drunk father  
> -Slight abuse 

Instinctively, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and tapped blindly until the torch lit up the small hallway. He lifted his hand into the air and shone the light in front of him, the face of John’s father illuminated.  
  
“Turn ‘at bloody thing off!” he barked.  
  
Instead of obeying, Sherlock simply lowered his arm to his side, the light around their heads fading a bit.  
  
“Who th’hell are you, why are you in m’ house?”  
  
“U-Uhm,” Sherlock stuttered desperately. “I’m a f-friend of John’s.”  
  
“You’s a pretty one, ain’t ya? Got curls lik’a girl!”  
  
Gulping, nerves alight, Sherlock slowly but efficiently fiddled with his mobile, finding John’s name in his contacts list and tapping the green icon shaped like a telephone.  
  
Sherlock cringed as he watched John’s father sway on his feet, falling roughly against the wall, trying to stay vertical. The man might not have been completely wasted, but he was definitely still inebriated. He peered quickly at his mobile when he heard John’s voice through the speaker. Luckily, Mr. Watson did not hear the panicked, “ _Sherlock??_ ”  
  
“Bit ov’a bender, yeah? Look like one,” he slurred. Loudly.  
  
Not a full three seconds later, Sherlock could hear John shuffling hurriedly across his floor and dropping the ladder, the bottom of it thumping thunderously. The noise practically echoed, startling the drunken man into jumping several feet off the ground and whipping violently around, almost falling as he spun.  
  
“Johnny boy!” he smiled crookedly and clapped John on the shoulder.  
  
The look on John’s face made Sherlock wince in sympathy. Not because his father seemed to be a real piece of work, but because Sherlock knew what it was like to be around people like that. People who think they’re a gift to society, those who believe everybody will fawn over them just for existing, for _breathing_.  
  
“We were just studying. Can we go back upstairs, please?”  
  
Sherlock saw John clench his fists, his knuckles turning white. It was obvious John was trying his best to keep his anger contained. The blonde was seething, hatred was coming off of him in extreme waves, and yet it went spectacularly unnoticed by his father.  
  
“Fine, fine. Y’know, back in’th day, I din’t study. Jus’ partied, shagged a few ladies,” he winked. “I turned out jus’ fine!”  
  
“True. I’m aiming to be _exactly_ like you,” John said evenly, rolling his eyes. “It’s my mission in life.”  
  
John stretched his arm out towards Sherlock, and waved his fingers at him, beckoning him over. Sherlock edged his way around the man between them.  
  
“See you later, dad,” John muttered, his palm hovering at the small of Sherlock’s back.  
  
As he turned his back on his father and started off in the other direction trailing Sherlock, his father roughly grabbed John’s wrist and held him back. Sherlock continued walking away, his stride small and slow, not realizing that John was not directly behind him anymore.  
  
It wasn’t until he heard low whispers and snarling that Sherlock turned around, his heart thudding violently against his sternum. As carefully as he could, he leant his head closer, turning his ear slightly. Evidently, his attempts at being unobtrusive while eavesdropping were futile as he caught John glaring at him.  
  
“Go upstairs, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock started to protest and was interrupted immediately by John again.  
  
“Please, just _go_.”  
  
Muttering, Sherlock trod towards the loft ladder and climbed up. He left it lowered, hoping John would soon be up with him. Rather than waiting on the sofa or bed, Sherlock scrambled to get onto his stomach and keep his ear near the opening of the room, straining as close he could without being seen – or falling through.  
  
He only heard every second or third word but he was clever. There was no doubt in his mind that he could deduce what was going on.  
  
About two minutes later, he heard the distinct noise of John’s feet shuffling towards him. He popped up as gracefully and quietly as he could and tiptoed to the sofa, flopping down in the corner, sitting in his usual position.  
  
As John climbed angrily into the room, Sherlock pondered what he would say, what he might want to ask. He decided the best course of action would be to say the first thing that came to mind.  
  
John sat opposite of Sherlock, his head rolling back to rest on the back of the sofa, clearly exasperated and upset.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yes?” he sighed heavily, surely anticipating what was coming.  
  
“What do you have to tell me?”


	19. John's Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look into the conversation between John and his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr @ **[longlive-johnlock](http://longlive-johnlock.tumblr.com)**
> 
>  
> 
> **TRIGGERS:**  
>  _-Homophobic slurs_  
>  -Slight abuse/indications of abuse

****_~Moments earlier~_  
  
__  
“Ish ‘e your boyfriend?”  
  
_“That’s none of your business,” John growled._  
  
_“I don’ care much if yer a faggot, Johnny.”_  
  
_“You’re probably going to be too tanked to remember this later, but I’ll say it again, father,” he started, drops of spit flying from his mouth.. “Don’t you ever use that word around me, or I will make you regret it more than you’ve regretted anything in your entire pathetic life, yeah?”_  
  
_The grip on John’s wrist tightened, his bones aching from being nearly crushed together._  
  
_“Secondly, I am not gay.”_  
  
_“Ain’t ya, though?”_  
  
_“I’m bi, you ignorant drunk.”_  
  
_“Same thing in th’ end.”_  
  
_John breathed deeply through his nose, willing himself not to lose hold of his temper. He couldn’t. But he so very much wanted to._  
  
_“As always, it’s like talking to a wall. I think a wall would be brighter than you, though.”_  
  
_“All ‘m saying, kid, is you’d better tell ‘em. 'E looks a'you like th' sun shines outta 'yer arse.”_  
  
_With that, John snarled and ripped his arm from his fathers grasp. His fists clenched dangerously, glaring angrily. He refused to massage the skin that had been in a vice like grip in front of his father. Shaking with rage, he turned around and walked away._


	20. Too Brave For The World He Was Living In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reluctantly tells Sherlock something that will force a change in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks. Sorry I haven't updated in nearly a damn year. Truth be told, I'm still struggling quite a bit with my own depression. I'm going to try and make updates a bit more regular from here on out! Thanks for not abandoning me <3 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr **[@longlivejohnlock](http://longlivejohnlock.tumblr.com)** and make sure you leave a comment! :) Hope you like the chapter!

Sherlock watched John twist uncomfortably where he sat. He didn’t want to put John on the spot, or make him feel cornered, but his curiosity was simply eating him alive. He was desperate to know, despite the fact that the pit in his stomach just continued to grow as he waited for an answer.  
  
“It’s… complicated, Sherlock.”  
  
Looking up through his eyelashes, a terrified feeling covered Sherlock’s entire body, his skin breaking out in tiny, red bumps, his blood starting to boil uncomfortably in his veins.  
  
“Oh. Sure. O-okay,” Sherlock replied.  
  
He cleared his throat, his uneasiness almost palpable. Sherlock clenched his fists and pushed up from the sofa using his knuckles, humiliation and confusion overwhelming his system. As he stood up, he felt John’s fingers close gently, loosely, around one of his wrists. Staying silent, he stopped but didn’t turn to face John yet, feeling deeply uncomfortable with the amount of hurt that was undoubtedly showing on his face – in his eyes, his lips, the colour of his cheeks.  
  
“This has _nothing_ to do with you. I swear,” John started. “I should have told you sooner, Sherlock, this is my fault. I’m sorry. Christ, you’re just going to hate me.”  
  
“I could never hate you, John.”  
  
“Well, never say never. You just might. I hate myself quite a lot right now.”  
  
Sherlock stepped back and slowly lowered himself back onto the sofa, still refusing to make eye contact with John. He opened his mouth to speak and found he couldn’t actually put a sound to the words he wanted to say. John was patient as he tried for several minutes to vocalize his thoughts, to find the right thing to ask. Ultimately, he gave up trying and decided to let John do the talking. The feelings he felt were rendering him incapable of forming a single coherent thought.  
  
“Okay. I’m just going to say it, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, anxiety burning through his veins.  
  
“I’m… moving this summer.”  
  
The words made Sherlock’s heart feel like it was falling out of chest and onto the floor, on display for the entire world to see. On display for _his_ entire world to see.  
  
“W-where?” he stuttered.  
  
“Uhm, Canada.”  
  
“Why are you moving to a frozen hell-scape? Nobody wants to go to _Canada_!”  
  
Finally, Sherlock shifted in place and faced John. A part of him wasn’t even aware that he was moving. It was like an out of body experience, something Sherlock had never experienced, something he never really expected to experience. He felt like he had been clobbered, all sense had left his head.  
  
“You’ve probably noticed by now I don’t talk about my family very much.”  
  
“Considering I heard about your sister via bloody Molly ‘ _I love rainbows and cats’_ Hooper and found out about your father because I spontaneously showed up at your door, yes, it’s safe to say I noticed it,” Sherlock snapped.  
  
He was surprised by his own outburst, and when he saw John wince as if he’d been physically struck, he regretted it immediately.  
  
“It’s not like you’ve been an open book about yours,” John said defensively. “The thing is, I’m moving to help my mum.”  
  
“Your mum?”  
  
“Mhmm.”  
  
“You’ve never talked about her before.”  
  
“No, no I haven’t.”  
  
“Now seems like an exceptionally good time to start,” Sherlock muttered.  
  
“There’s not an awful lot to say, honestly.”  
  
Sherlock stubbornly curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled so tight against his chest it was verging on painful. He dug his fingernails into his shins, needing a physical distraction, something to make him not focus on everything that was going on inside of his head – he wasn’t sure he could cope with it right now. No, he wasn’t sure _how_ he would cope if he let his thoughts take over.  
  
“One second,” John said as he stood up and walked to his closet.  
  
Tilting his head, Sherlock watched him rummage through a small shoebox – much like he had earlier when he was digging out his paints. A moment that seemed so long ago even though it was mere hours.  
  
John shuffled back to the sofa and flopped down beside Sherlock, handing him a small envelope that was stuffed full of old photographs.  
  
Sherlock carefully took it from John and looked up at him, curiosity flowing through him like a tidal wave.  
  
“Go on, then.”  
  
Heart beating rapidly, Sherlock tipped the photos out of the envelope and into the palm of his hand, smiling helplessly at the first photo – a Polaroid of a tall woman, blonde hair down to her waist, a crown of flowers atop her head, holding a newborn baby, and a young girl gazing lovingly at the baby.  
  
“You look like her,” Sherlock whispered.  
  
He continued to go through the pictures, his face slowly falling as he went on. As he proceeded to the next photo, and the next photo, and so on, he started to notice that Harry appeared less and less, and when she did appear, you could see the look of emotional numbness in her eyes. He knew that look all too well. It was like she was already dead. Sherlock also noticed that John and his mother looked nearly inseparable. Every few pictures, Sherlock saw that John’s mother would have bruises on her arms, or her clothing was wrinkled and torn.  
  
From the time John was about six years old until the time he was nine, there were no more photos, and the photos that came after were few and far between.  
  
There was one of John with his mother’s new wife. John with the new baby, a big goofy grin on his face. The last photo was of John, his mother and stepmother, Harry, and their baby sister, everybody was smiling, Harry even had a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. They were _happy_. It looked like his mum’s wedding, everyone dressed in white.  
  
And then there were no more photos.  
  
Quietly, Sherlock slid the photos back into the envelope and handed it back to John.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Life,” John shrugged. “She and my father got married after they were out of secondary school. He was, supposedly, a different man back then. He found the bottle; she got tired of it. She fell in love with a co-worker, he didn’t even notice when she left him.”  
  
“Why didn’t you go with her?”  
  
“We did. For a while. But my mum and step-mum had to do some business traveling and eventually the home base ended up being in Canada, and they’ve since settled down with Emma – my sister. We were so young, neither Harry or I wanted to leave our home, our friends, so we decided to stay.”  
  
“Even though your dad…?”  
  
“We knew, Sherlock,” John sighed. “We knew what he was, what kind of person he was. Harry and I just figured we’d get through it and then we’d be free of him soon enough.”  
  
“Why _now_ , John? You’re not even done school yet.”  
  
Sherlock saw John’s eyes pooling with tears and noticed his jaw clenching. John Watson. Always too brave for the world he was living in.  
  
“My step-mum, Lina, is sick. And it’s been really hard on my mum, trying to work and not have to dip into their savings, and with Emma, and all of the appointments. She’s just so worn out.”  
  
He couldn’t fault that, as much as he wished he could. He knew how important having a John Watson was. Not much else made sense to Sherlock, but _that_ was something he knew.  
  
Sherlock straightened his legs out and shifted, leaning his shoulder against John’s and linking their arms together.  
  
“Are you… how long are you planning to stay there?”  
  
“I guess as long as they need me,” John shrugged, planting a soft kiss on Sherlock’s head.  
  
“Take me with you,” Sherlock said softly.  
  
“Ah, love, you know I would if I could.”  
  
“But you could!”  
  
Sherlock pulled his head away from John and looked at him, need filling his eyes. He knew he wasn’t being fair, he knew full well that this was nothing but a pipe dream. Nothing but a simple dream in which he could stay with John. Anything else would be a nightmare.  
  
“Mycroft would pull a few strings. He could make it happen, John.”  
  
His voice cracked as he spoke. Just another inadvertent way to show how broken this would make him. He could only imagine that John thought he was headed for a breakdown, tears and all. And maybe John would be right. Sherlock honestly had no idea how his emotions would come out, and he certainly didn’t feel like he had any control over them – and that scared him. As much as he understood John’s need to leave and help his family, Sherlock wanted to be selfish. To be selfish and tell John to stay in London and to stay with him.  
  
“You know you can’t, sweetheart,” John whispered.  
  
Briefly, Sherlock’s heart did a flip when the word ‘ _sweetheart’_ slipped so carelessly from John’s lips.  
  
“I know,” he muttered, miserable.  
  
“But you can visit me. If you wanted to.”  
  
Sherlock smiled the smallest of smiles, only slightly comforted by John’s comment about visiting.  
  
“Of course I want to,” Sherlock sniffled. “Can I ask you something?”  
  
John nodded, staying silent.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”  
  
“I…I guess I didn’t know how to,” John pondered. “I mean, how do you tell your best friend that you’re going to be on the other side of the Atlantic?”  
  
“I’m… your best friend?”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, you’re my _everything_.”  
  
That should have been something that made Sherlock happy. Maybe it would have that affect in the morning after he had time to process. Right now, though. Right now, it just broke his heart. He couldn’t help but feel like he would be losing his best friend – the only friend he’d ever truly had, aside from a childhood pet. Aside from the blades he called companions and the pills he knew as comrades.  
  
He had to fight the drowning feeling he was feeling, though. Not for his own benefit – he didn’t care so much if he drowned. It was for John. It was always for John. Sherlock was observant enough to know John was feeling hesitant about leaving, guilty for keeping it from Sherlock for so long. He didn’t want to make it worse. John believed there was something redeemable inside of Sherlock, and this was the moment he could prove it.  
  
He could allow himself to feel miserable and pathetic in the comfort of his own home later.  
  
In some ways, it felt like he was reverting back to who he had been before John. The emotionally closed off punk who kept everything inside because it was safer. But in some ways, this was completely different. He wasn’t doing it because it was safer – not exactly. He had to keep his heartache inside for now because he had to support John. In this moment, that’s what John needed.  
  
“Will you write to me?” Sherlock asked quietly.  
  
“Every god damn day,” John whispered. “Is that your way of letting me go?”  
  
“I will never let you go, John.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I know,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I just… thought it needed to be said.”  
  
He slowly snaked his hand down to John’s and intertwined their fingers, briefly squeezing tightly. John responded by bringing their clasped hands up to his mouth and peppering kisses across the back of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock could feel John smile as he pressed kiss after kiss against his skin.  
  
Nothing he’d ever felt could top this.  
  
And he was doing his best not to let the impending doom ruin that right now.


	21. Your Pain is My Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes back to where he first met John. This time, he meets someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr!   
>  **  
> **  
> [@longlivejohnlock](http://longlivejohnlock.tumblr.com)  
> 

Only a few hours later, they were both at school, and they were both absolutely dead on their feet, having not slept at all. Sherlock leant against his locker, still clad in his date clothes, although John had let him borrow one of his football jumpers that zipped up.  
  
“Whose bright idea was this?” he groaned.  
  
John chuckled, his back against the locker next to Sherlock, ready to catch him if he were to fall over.  
  
“I believe it was both of our faults.”  
  
“Nonsense!”  
  
John chuckled again and it was music to Sherlock’s ears. It was a better sound than his favourite song.  
  
But it was unfortunately just a beautiful reminder that he wouldn’t be able to hear that sound every day soon. He wished he could record it and have it play inside of his head while he slept. Maybe he’d be lucky and he wouldn’t forget it any time soon.  
  
The sound of John sliding closer to him interrupted his thoughts – and that was probably a good thing, as they seemed to be quickly spiraling out of control.  
  
“I didn’t really get a chance to say it,” John started. “But I think that was a fantastic first date.”  
  
Smiling shyly, blush creeping up the back of his neck, Sherlock gazed at John. He didn’t quite know what to say – he was exhausted to the point of incoherent thoughts, and truth be told, he was still trying to process the news John had broken to him just hours before.  
  
The first bell rang and Sherlock jumped, inciting another chuckle from John.  
  
They didn’t have a class together until the afternoon and Sherlock was dreading parting from John after nearly twenty-four hours spent side by side.  
  
Perhaps more startling than the shrill ring of the school bell was the kiss on the cheek from John. It just about knocked him off of his feet.  
  
“See you later, love,” John whispered after the kiss.  
  
Sherlock felt like he was floating. No matter how hurt he felt that John was leaving, he couldn’t help but feel like he was high when John kissed him or called him _‘love’._ It was an automatic euphoria and he was positive if he looked down at the ground, he’d see he was actually on a cloud and the rest of the world no longer existed.  
  
Instead of going to his morning classes, he found himself sitting in the small alcove where John had stitched him up after football practice.  
  
This was the place it all began.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t a big believer in kismet, but a part of him wondered what state he would be in today if he hadn’t accidentally cut too deep that day. Would he and John have found another way to connect? Would he still be destroying his body while trying to destroy the feelings inside? Would he even notice if John stopped coming to school if none of this had happened?  
  
He didn’t know.  
  
He didn’t like asking himself those questions, but he was too fascinated not to. In a twisted, morbid way, he was thankful for his self-destructive behaviour. He’d never tell anybody that, though. John was understanding to a point but he didn’t think even John could understand this, not with never having that feeling of self-loathing that Sherlock had felt every day of his life for as long as he could remember.  
  
Sherlock noticed a tall, slim brunette in a summer dress smoking across the way and he cleared his throat before talking.  
  
“Can I bum a cigarette?”  
  
The girl rolled her eyes and sauntered over to him.  
  
“What’s in it for me?”  
  
“Uh—good karma?”  
  
She stuck out her tongue in disgust, her nose wrinkling.  
  
“Tell ya what,” she drawled. “First one’s free, next one is gonna cost ya.”  
  
She pulled a cigarette from a pocket in her dress and flipped it between her fingers like a drummer flips a drumstick before handing it to him.  
  
Sherlock smiled awkwardly at her, feeling sheepish.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Anytime, cutie,” she winked, dropping a box of matches in his lap.  
  
Sherlock watched her as she walked towards the car park where a woman in ripped jeans and a black helmet waited on a motorbike. He watched Cigarette Girl climb onto the back of the bike, the hem of her dress riding up her thighs. Her hands rested casually on the driver’s hips, a finger sneaking inside the waistband of her jeans.  
  
As they rode off, he was about to open the box of matches when he noticed the face of it was like a business card.  
  
“IRENE ADLER”  
“YOUR PAIN IS MY PLEASURE”  
  
There was a small, simple outline of a whip in the bottom right corner.  
  
Curious.  
  
He shrugged and opened the matchbox, striking one. His first attempt failed, and he struck it again, failing. He struck it a third time and a small flame at the end of the stick appeared.  
  
Rather than lighting his cigarette, he watched the stick burn until the wind conquered the flame.  
  
Sighing, he put the cigarette behind his ear and pulled his knees up to his chest.  
  
Minutes passed more frequently than students. He liked this corner of the school. Most people who walked by him didn’t even notice and he was grateful for the invisibility. Even during the lunch hour, he only counted seven people who wandered past, most looking for a place to smoke.  
  
His mobile buzzed repeatedly.  
  
First, they were texts from John. A slew of _where are you_ ’s and _are you okay_ ’s.  
  
And then it was a phone call. Several phone calls. Voicemails were left each time.  
  
Finally, Sherlock decided to answer. It wasn’t fair to John to keep him worrying. He didn’t know why he waited so long. He suspected it had to do with how tired he was.  
  
“Sherlock?? Sherlock, are you there?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Where are you? You weren’t at your locker at lunch!”  
  
“I’m outside.”  
  
“Are you okay…?”  
  
“Fine. Just sitting,” Sherlock replied. “I needed some time to decompress, I think.”  
  
“Oh. Okay. I mean, you could have let me know! I understand that you need alone time sometimes, Sherlock.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“No, it’s fine, just for future reference, okay?”  
  
“Okay. Thank you, John.”  
  
“Anytime, love,” said John. “I’ll call you tonight, you get some rest.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. The amount John cared for his wellbeing was astounding.  
  
“I will.”  
  
“Alright, talk to you later.”  
  
“Hey, John?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I had a good time with you, too.”  
  
Sherlock could just about hear the grin that appeared on John’s face, and his stomach did flips. Both from knowing he could make John smile, and the anxiety that came with admitting his feelings to someone. Out loud. It was a strange sensation, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it.  
  
“Good. I’m glad. Bye, Sherlock.”  
  
“Bye.”  
  
Sherlock disconnected the call and stuffed his phone into his pocket.  
  
The lunch hour was almost over, and he knew he should attend at least one class today, but he didn’t have the motivation to do so. Truthfully, he found it absurd that kids his age weren’t supposed to have mental health days. Not everybody could function at such a level every single day – he sure couldn’t. But of course, he was labeled as trouble, just like all the other kids who skipped school or who didn’t measure up to the societal norm of a perfect student.  
  
He needed to go home.  
  
His head was always so loud, muffled thoughts trying to find a way out, and it was too loud here. Even if people weren’t walking by very often, he could hear school teams practicing on the field, he could hear kids with a break in their schedule laughing and having a good time, he could hear vehicles coming and going in the parking lot and buses passing by. He could hear just about everything. It was too loud today and he needed a quiet place to try and untangle his thoughts and feelings.  
  
Before standing up, he thought it best to text John and let him know he was leaving. It was weird checking in with someone, letting them know where he was going. That was never the relationship he had with Mycroft or his parents – they didn’t care where he was as long as he wasn’t getting into too much trouble, and even if he did, they would fix it. Mycroft would lecture him about his behaviour and the proper decorum but Sherlock would forget it (purposely) twenty minutes later.  
  
Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Sherlock pushed himself up off of the ground and wiped the back of his jeans, sand and dirt falling down to where they belonged. He started walking towards the main road, kicking stray rocks as he shuffled along. He was walking faster than he normally would. Most days, he liked to take his time, but today, he needed the four walls of his room.  
  
That thought alone is what kept him going.


End file.
